On the Bright Side, There isn't a Bright Side
by we're-all-stories17
Summary: The world is ending. Maybe. If it ever gets around to it . The team that's supposed to save it? One vessel of Michael who can't stop lusting after his kind-of-human best friend, one vessel of Lucifer determined to better the world via feminism, health food, and docu-dramas, and one fallen angel who still can't turn the shower on without help. Yeah. Mid-season 5, Destiel.
1. Chapter 1

It all starts with a question.

And, okay, they can't really _blame_ it on him. Castiel is turning human, which is scary and infuriating and he'd give anything to stop it from happening; but it _is_ happening, things are changing inside him, so he's curious. Curious about eating, and sleeping, and money, and cars, and computers, and things he's never needed to think about before. So he asks questions, and because he's mostly only around Sam and Dean, Sam and Dean are the ones who have to answer. Fair enough. They're his friends, after all.

But even though all his questions are perfectly innocent in intent, Cas seems to have developed a remarkable knack for asking about things Dean really, _really_ would rather not discuss at all, _especially_ with a socially retarded almost-ex-angel. Things like "what are feminine hygiene products? Why are there not masculine hygiene products also?" which leads to a super-fun lesson about the female reproductive system in the middle of the grocery store, since Cas clearly hadn't paid any attention during angel sex-ed; and "what does slut walk mean?" which unexpectedly reveals Sam's inner hardcore feminist; and, so far Dean's personal favourite, "what's a Nikki Minaj?" though he's a little less pleased by the fact that Sam insists on showing their friend every video of hers he can find.

He asks other stuff, of course, non-awkward things like what do you do with shampoo and how do you put gas in the Impala, so when Dean realizes his curiosity has been piqued yet again he's not immediately suspicious. They're driving back to their current motel after successfully taking out a nest of vamps, and since he's basking in the glow of a hunt successfully completed as well as focusing on the road, Dean hasn't really noticed the way Cas cranes his neck to stare at a plaza as they pass it by.

Just a regular plaza, a handful of fast-food places with one real-ish restaurant, a suspicious second-hand bookstore that Sam eyes longingly, a computer store, an athletic store, a few other places. But when Cas finally tears his gaze away he's frowning pensively, clearly deep in thought about something or other.

"What's up, Cas?" Dean says cheerfully. "You want a pair of yoga pants or something?"

"I don't know what that is, but probably not," says Cas, since as usual the joke has soared gracefully right over his head. "I was just wondering…I thought toys were designed for children."

Dean and Sam exchange glances, which is enough to solidify the knowledge that none has any idea what Cas might be talking about. "Uh, they are," Dean tells him. He doesn't mind volunteering himself to field what seems like a safe enough question; at least if he takes a few then he can feel a little less guilty about leaving Sam to deal with the uncomfortable body-slash-sex questions.

"And the sacrifice of one's toys is a mark of passage to adulthood, correct?"

"I…guess so…" Dean thinks of Sam, whose "playtime" growing up tended to consist of learning how to shoot straight and packing cartridges full of rock salt. Those certainly aren't toys he's given up—though in the Winchesters' case it was more a matter of childhood getting roughly shoved out the door. They never had to worry about how to grow up.

"I see," Cas says in a way that means he doesn't see at all.

Dean sighs, and since they seem to be dancing around something here he just asks, "Why? What's up?"

"I just don't understand," Cas admits after a moment's internal struggle as he tries to sort human things out on his own, "why anyone would design an adult toy store."

Oh. Okay. So obviously one of the stores they just passed was a stag shop, and now someone's going to have to explain to Cas what a dildo is. Fantastic.

Luckily this is where Sam steps in. It's weird how this whole thing works: Dean has more sex, has _kinkier_ sex (he's pretty sure about this, anyways, though he's never actually had an opportunity to find out and really doesn't ever want to) than his little brother—yet something about discussing it with Cas makes him squirm. Sam, on the other hand, is not only remarkably knowledgeable but also in possession of an attitude towards sex similar to that of one of the better kinds of public health nurses. He's like the cool older brother Dean never had, the one who can answer all the shy questions and give the kind of advice that you actually need but never seems to get mentioned anywhere else. Only Cas isn't shy because he doesn't know he's supposed to be, and he tends to ask more out of interest than out of a genuine need for practical information; but Dean still can't help getting uncomfortable when Sam is graphically explaining to Cas how different types of birth control work or what "getting head" means, as well as feeling weirdly _left out_. Maybe because he's used to Cas coming to _him_ for help, not his brother; maybe he just wishes he were as open as Sam. Anyways, whatever. The whole thing is just frigging _weird_.

"It seems counter-intuitive," Cas continues, utterly oblivious. "And also unprofitable."

So obviously Sam steps in here, twisting around in his seat to tell Cas, "They're different kinds of toys. Things to help with sex."

"I wasn't aware humans required any assistance in that area."

"Well… not _require_, no. Just to make sex more fun, I guess. To make it different. Or for people who're single."

Which leads into Dean gritting his teeth and watching his knuckles go white from gripping the steering wheel so hard, while Sam explains in great detail to Cas how vibrators, and cock rings, and butt plugs, and anal beads, and a ton of other things Dean doesn't even want to _think_ about work, and Cas just sits there with his head tilted to one side asking questions every once in a while for clarification, so by the time they finally, _finally_ get back to the motel Dean practically leaps out of the car, calling back that he's going for a walk and not to wait around for him.

By the time he gets back the sun is going down, and since none of them ate dinner they're all hungry. Sam has stopped talking about masturbation and anal sex and similarly fun things, for which Dean says a silent prayer of thanks. Cas may still be considering his latest fun-things-you-can-do-with-your-dick lesson from Sam, but for the moment at least has been mercifully distracted by a sudden urgent need for burgers. Dean breathes a sigh of relief and decides it's probably safe to go for dinner with them, even if he has to spend the whole meal pointedly _not_ imagining what Cas would do with a vibrator.

They're halfway through their meal when a disgruntled Cas leaves to go to the bathroom—probably his least favourite aspect of being human, maybe because it's so damned impossible to ignore. Dean's happy to concentrate on his burger, which isn't especially remarkable but hey, it's a burger and burgers are amazing enough that he's been trying to work out how such a shitty world allows for their supernal existence for years by eating as many as possible. Sam, on the other hand, waits till Castiel is out of hearing range to set down his fork in a we-need-to-discuss-something way, and then asks, "How come you never want to talk about any of this stuff?"

"What? Are you… I _love_ talking about food. If you haven't noticed over the past, like, twenty-six years of me being your brother."

"Not about _this_." Sam waves a hand dismissively at the plates in front of them, which in Dean's opinion is verging on sacrilege. "About other stuff. About all the stuff Cas wants to know."

"Okay, first of all, not true. I definitely taught him how to text yesterday." For two frigging hours—honestly, you'd think someone as powerful and ancient and kind-of omnipotent as an angel of the Lord would be able to figure out a simple cell phone. Apparently, however, his technological ability falls somewhere below that of an eight-year-old child. By now, in fact, Dean has almost concluded that Castiel's learning curve for computers is basically just a straight line. "And second of all, why the hell would I want to talk about…stuff like that, like this afternoon…with _Cas_? Jesus. You're the one who's all weird and teacher-y with it."

Sam looks at him for a long time. Dean _hates_ this, the way Sam can see right through him to things Dean didn't even know were there; he's trying so, so hard not to fidget, even though that's what he does when he's uncomfortable and Sam staring at him like this is definitely making him uncomfortable, because he knows Sam will just read into that, as well. "I'm not being weird and teacher-y," says Sam eventually. "I'm just telling him what he needs to know. I'm just being for him what you were for me."

And that shuts Dean up for a minute. Sam's like the cool older brother Dean never had? No, Sam's like the cool older brother _Sam_ had, the one he looked up to, the one who showed him the ropes since their father was too busy. Dean remembers teenage Sam coming to him to ask self-consciously about what his body was doing, and about girls, and about sex; and since he was blushing the whole time, clearly mortified like most kids his age, Dean had to be cool about it. Laugh off his embarrassment—show Sam there wasn't any reason to be embarrassed in the first place, since it happened to everyone sooner or later.

"It's natural stuff," Sam adds. "That's what you used to tell me, anyways. And, like." There's another pause as he struggles to come up with a way to say what he's thinking. "You just…I don't get it. How come you could talk about this so easy when you were seventeen, and now it's like you've turned into some first-grader who still thinks kissing is gross?"

"I…what? Kissing's not gross," Dean protests feebly. It's all he can think to say. The conversation seems to be veering dangerously close to those things other people talk about but that he definitely doesn't have. Emotions or whatever. Ugh.

"Well, yeah, I know. And neither is sitting down and explaining what a boner is to your kind-of human friend who's freaking out because he thinks his arteries are going to explode."

"Yeah, but, like… it's…you know. _Cas_."

"Well, exactly. You two are supposed to be friends. It's not like Zachariah's coming to ask you for dating tips or something. I mean, Cas is family, right? So I was expecting you to just go into experienced big brother mode automatically."

Okay, it's a little bit of a valid point. What makes this so different from helping out his younger brother? Or, for that matter, from taking Cas to a brothel not so long ago in an attempt to help him get laid? He might say he's just out of practice—Sam hardly needs his help in _those _matters anymore, and all he really had to do in the brothel was give Cas a shove in the right direction (though look how well that turned out); only the other day when Sam was out getting groceries Cas had woken up pretty damn rock hard, and after being asked rather mournfully how he was supposed to get rid of it Dean had blushed and stammered and generally made a complete idiot of himself as he attempted to explain the concept of masturbation before fleeing the room as soon as Sam returned. There's just something about putting _Cas_ and _sex_ together that makes him go hot and cold and his hands start sweating and it's hard to focus properly. Or maybe not Cas and sex, exactly, since he was fine with trying to set Cas up with Chastity that one time; maybe more like Cas and Cas's body. Cas's body that he's been unintentionally seeing a lot more of recently. Cas's body that sometimes wears his old clothes since there are only so many days you can go in a suit and trench-coat, and Dean kind of likes the way it looks on him. Cas's body that he has to try not to imagine naked in the shower every night, covered in soap and hot water. Cas _touching_ his body—

Fuck it. Cas's body that really, seriously, _excruciatingly_ turns Dean on sometimes.

But, like, whatever, right? Cas is hot. Fine. Dean can deal with it. He's not some sissy teenager moping around because he's in love with his best friend or anything. Chris Evans is hot too, and Dean managed not to curl up in a sobbing ball after he saw _Captain America_ just because he'd never get to have sex with him. He's perfectly content to keep it his not-so-little secret, to admire from afar (or at least as _afar_ as the personal-spatially-challenged angel will allow)—except it's kind of hard (pun definitely _not_ intended) when Cas is asking in innocent bewilderment why on earth a man would possibly want a vibrator and Sam is answering unashamedly, as if his comfortably straight younger brother has ever wanted to try so how does he even know this stuff, and Dean is listening to everything Sam says even though he doesn't want to and even though he _really_ doesn't want to he's also picturing Cas doing everything Sam is explaining in careful detail.

So yeah, he prefers to leave the sex talks to Sam.

Cas reappears, wiping his still-damp hands absently on his (Dean's, actually, which _isn't helping)_ jeans, and all Dean has time to say before he sits down with them again is a vague, "You're way better at it, anyways."

"Better at what?" Cas asks, who is forced to dip a few of his fries in ketchup now that he's demolished the entire burger.

"Nothing," Sam says quickly. It's both a blessing and a curse—they won't be discussing Dean's supposed sudden-onset bashfulness (yeah, right) with Cas right then and there, but Sam will undoubtedly want to continue the conversation later. Fantastic.

"Oh." Ordinarily Cas might have pushed a little further since it's obvious they're hiding something, but right now he's too busy eyeing his empty plate despondently to pay much attention. "Can I have another burger?"

"_No_," Dean and Sam say, practically in unison.


	2. Chapter 2

He can't believe he's doing this. He really, really, _really_, cannot believe he is actually _doing this._ With _them._ When they ought to be working on a case. Hell, when they ought to be figuring out how to stop the frigging Apocalypse. He thought the issue was closed _days_ ago, for good. How the _hell_ did Sam manage to talk him into this, anyways?

All he knows is that now, somehow, he, Sam, and Cas are walking through the door of the stag shop they passed on their way back to the motel earlier that week.

Shitshitshitshitshit_shit._

It's great that Sam is all into promoting the sort of healthy, open relationships all those progressive families are so into nowadays, where the kids (i.e. Cas) actually _talk_ to the parents (i.e. Sam and, extremely reluctantly, Dean) about sex and stuff. Honestly. It's great. Only it would be a whole lot more great if Sam didn't insist on being so frigging hands-on about everything—he thinks his brother might actually cry if Cas hasn't used all this recently gained information to jerk off at least once—and in particular, if he didn't insist on being so frigging hands-on about everything _with Dean._

But somehow when they passed that plaza again Sam asked Cas _do you want to stop and take a look?_ And Cas thought about it for a second while Dean was still attempting to process that his brother had just asked his best friend if he wanted to go look at sex toys together, then said _okay._ It's all a little hazy now, kind of like some horrible nightmare, but Dean's pretty sure he did everything short of throwing a full-out tantrum to get them to change their minds; and yet somehow, here they are. Team Free Will—or maybe _Team Free Love_ would be more appropriate considering the way things have been going recently—all crowded around a display of clit stimulators.

"I can't believe you talked me into this," Dean growls to Sam as Cas stares at the goods before him with that stupid head tilt, like he's just looking at a vaguely interesting stamp collection or something.

"It'll be good for him," Sam whispers back. "He's an adult, technically, but you and I have our whole lives of accumulated experience to go on while he's got, like, three weeks' worth. And I'm assuming at _some_ point he's going to get curious about actually trying stuff, so he might as well know as much as he can. You really want to set him loose on some poor innocent girl when he still thinks getting a boner is a medical problem?"

There's really nothing Dean can say to this because no, he definitely _doesn't_ think that's a good idea (plus the only place where he wants Cas set loose at the moment is in his bed, not that he's going to tell Sam that). So instead he changes tactics and says, "Okay, but why are we looking at _these?_ In case you haven't noticed none of us actually have a fucking clitoris, genius."

"Fair point," Sam acquiesces, and drags Cas over to a rack of _holy shit what the fuck are those Jesus Christ is that even legal?_

Dean thought they were just going for a quick look around, a brief seeing of the sights before Cas's curiosity had been satisfied sufficiently for them to get on with saving the world once again; but apparently Sam has other ideas, because by the time they leave twenty minutes later a bemused Cas is holding a bag and Sam is beaming as proudly as a mother watching her child graduate university with a PhD in theoretical physics.

"It's so good for you to be exploring this on your own, you know?" Sam gushes. "A lot of kids in schools still get taught that sex is just for reproduction, but for most people it's more for pleasure. And if you look at it that way, there's absolutely nothing wrong with doing it yourself."

"Right…" says Castiel. Dean has a feeling this may be directly in conflict with his previous beliefs and he's just too polite to say anything; on the other hand it seems equally possible that he's just as dazed by Sam's sexual exploration whirlwind as Dean is.

Luckily things go more or less back to normal after that, or as normal as things ever are for the Winchesters. All three of them are busy—"the family business" has gone from saving _some _people and hunting _some _things to saving the entire world and hunting absolutely everything, and even without the majority of his angelic powers Cas's third set of hands is an enormous asset. Sam still, miraculously, finds the time once in a while to drag Dean out of the motel room with clear instructions to Cas that they will be back in precisely _once hour_ so why doesn't he _relax for a bit_, whereupon Dean is forced to spend the entirety of whatever dumb outing Sam's come up with pointedly _not_ imagining what Cas might be doing back in that motel room on his own.

"Isn't this kind of weird?" he asks Sam in desperation after spending the entirety of the movie he's been coerced into attending (_A Dangerous Method_, which to Sam seems to be enthralling but to Dean is just weird and boring and why does his brother's taste in everything suck so much) _not_ wondering or picturing or thinking _at all_ about Cas.

Sam considers the question. "Not really," he says. "They've always made a lot of these types of movies. I went to see _The King's Speech_ while you were, um, dead, and—"

"Not the _movie_, idiot, _Cas._ We're basically just telling him to…" Dean gestures vaguely, hoping Sam will get the message.

"Well, maybe a little," Sam admits. "Not exactly _normal_, anyways—but it's not exactly a _normal_ situation either, is it? He needs some time to experiment and stuff, and otherwise we're with him basically all the time. And this isn't like brushing his teeth or making Kraft dinner or whatever, it's not really something we can be around for—unless you want to—"

"No, thanks," says Dean quickly. Sam laughs, and Dean laughs too, except a little awkwardly because even though he managed to get his mouth to shoot down the suggestion right away his cock is insisting that yes, he would like _very much_ to stay and watch. Or help.

So life goes on, and the Apocalypse goes on, and Dean's big gay hard-on for his best friend goes on, and Sam's inner goddess continues to shine. In fact, Dean sometimes finds himself wondering how the hell this kid ever got himself slated as the Devil's vessel when his greatest powers seem to consist of providing unwanted sex education, listening to really bad music, and ingesting mind-boggling amounts of salad. What's Lucifer going to do, Taylor Swift the world into flames? Damn the human race to an eternity of putting cheap condoms on bananas?

To be honest, both prospects are pretty fucking terrifying. Dean decides he'll take some good old fire and brimstone over an eternal loop of the dance-y radio version of Love Story any day.

They're watching another of Sam's random documentaries (_Amazing Grace_, since it's on TV and Sam says it's good and Cas is intrigued and Dean is really fucking bored) when Dean finds his best-friend-boner—or BFB as he's taken to calling it in his head, for no particular reason other than why use four syllables when you can use three—acting up. It may be because his eyes keep being drawn back to the closet where he can see the black-and-red stag shop bag from a few weeks earlier peeking out, or it may be because he's sitting _really close_ to Cas on the too-small couch and he can feel Cas's body heat radiating out and he's wearing pajama pants that sit right below his hips so Dean can easily see the way his skin is stretched taught over the sharp bones and there's a drop of water left over from his recent shower rolling oh so slowly down the dip of Cas's collarbone that Dean is extremely tempted to lick off and he doesn't always like to take it up the ass but at the moment he's feeling perfectly willing to let Cas bend him over the sofa and—

—and he _really_ needs to stop, Jesus Christ. He hasn't taken in a single fucking word of the movie in the past five minutes. His mouth is bone-dry, his heart is racing, and he doesn't even want to think about what's going on in his pants right now. Stupid Cas with his stupid fucking angle pheromones, or whatever the hell it is that's got Dean practically drooling over him.

It's nearly midnight and Cas is looking exhausted, head drooping over every so often before he jerks upright again. Dean's had enough of this—he doesn't want a repeat of _Julie and Julia_, when they both passed out only to wake up to Sam sniggering about the fact that Cas had unconsciously snuggled up against Dean. In particular he doesn't want it _now_, when he's already so heated up that he has a bad feeling any actual physical contact might make his dick explode. So he stands up abruptly, announces he's going to bed, and storms off to take a shower.

That's _exactly_ what he intends when he steps under the stream of hot water. Honestly. Just get clean and get into bed. Except he can't seem to stop thinking about that red-and-black bag, which just gets him thinking about Cas jerking off…not even with any of the weird stuff Sam bought, just wrapping those long fingers around his cock, all flushed a pretty red-purple with blood…a few strokes, hesitant at first because he doesn't really know what he's doing or what he wants or how this is supposed to work, and those blue eyes are widening in surprise since hey, this is actually feels kind of good…building up a rhythm, now, maybe adding a little twist when he gets to the head the way Dean does (the way Dean's doing now, because how can he possibly imagine any of this without touching himself in the process)…actually it feels _really_ good, and his teeth are digging into his bottom lip as he speeds it up a little, snapping his hips forward into his hand—_fuck_ that's hot, and this is only what he can imagine on his own. Not even imagining those long fingers around _him_, or Cas's stubble against his skin, or just Cas on his own because he is seriously that fucking attractive. Good on Cas for picking such a drop-dead gorgeous vessel, though Dean's pretty sure the angel never intended on using Jimmy's body exactly this way when he took up residence, and _shit that's_—

Real Dean, who's in the shower not very far away from Sam and Cas on the couch in the other room (awkward) comes before the Cas in his head, which is good because he's kind of at a loss to guess what watching Cas orgasm would be like; really, _really_ hot, obviously, but the details—is he loud, and is it words or just noises? Or is he quiet? Do his eyes widen or squeeze tight shut? Will he keep jerking it out, or stop right away because he doesn't know what's going on?—are hazy, and the details are what's important. He has to bite his lip to keep from moaning, bracing himself against the tiled wall with one arm until the waves of pleasure have stopped shooting through him and it feels fucking fantastic to get that out, after days and weeks of growing steadily more certain that Cas's body is by far the hottest thing around but not being able to do anything about it.

The only problem is that the water, now washing the sticky white splatters of come in a swirling mess down the drain, can't help wash away the knowledge of the fact that Dean just got off to the thought of his best friend getting off. Which is a little… weird. Or kind of a _lot_ weird. And in a minute he's going to have to get out of the shower and walk into the other room to climb into bed, and he's going to see Cas on the couch still watching that dumb movie or maybe asleep by now, and he's going to have to try not to think about how aside from stopping the Apocalypse all Dean really wants to do is have sex with him.

Oops.

At least he's not sharing a bed with Cas tonight—it's his turn for a bed to himself, since they do an odd sort of musical chairs but with beds every night, each person sharing for two then by himself for one. Really they ought to just start getting a second room; but Cas doesn't want to be by himself and Dean doesn't want to leave Cas alone with Sam's unquenchable thirst to help Cas with his self-exploration or whatever and Dean _definitely_ doesn't want to be alone in a room with Cas, especially not after that shower, so this is what they're doing.

"Did you have to be so loud?" Sam asks in annoyance when he comes out in his towel, and Dean heart seems to stop for a second. It's not so much the fact that Sam and Cas might have heard him that's worrying but the possibility that they somehow knew what he was thinking about, even though that was all in his head and there's no way they could know anything about that, right, unless—"What were you doing, juggling the shampoo?"

Oh, right. That. Well, Sam can shut up because it's kind of hard to concentrate on holding the soap or shampoo or whatever when you're still a little blissed out from a pretty decent orgasm and also dreading the next time you'll have to see Cas (which, unfortunately, will be in approximately five minutes). Not that he's going to tell Sam that, but basically the fact that the soap bar now has a weird dent in it from being dropped three times on the shower floor is perfectly justified.

"Yeah, well, that's my prerogative, isn't it?" says Dean snarkily, because he's tired and guilty and how come Cas has the wildest sex hair out of all of them _all_ the time even though he's also the most hardcore virgin of the trio, can't he just learn to use a hairbrush properly and stop tempting Dean to dig his fingers into it? "Juggling in the shower is how I do my own self-exploration, so suck it. By the way your toothbrush fell in the toilet." It hasn't, actually, but Dean knows how to push all Sam's buttons by now and tonight he's in the mood to push as many as he can. He holds Sam entirely responsible for this whole thing—if he'd just been normal about all Cas's awkward questions instead of turning into Laci fucking Green Dean's pretty sure he could have gotten away without ever noticing he had a thing for Cas.

"Augh! I hate you!" exclaims Sam, scrambling up from the couch as if hoping that if he gets there fast enough he can somehow reverse the (actually non-existent) damage.

"G'night," Dean mumbles to Cas, without really looking at him.

"Good night, Dean," says Cas. As far as Dean can figure, he goes back to watching the movie after that. He and Dean's brother have been considerate enough to turn the volume down a few notches, so that Dean drifts off to sleep to the murmur of recorded voices and a conscience that is currently kicking him in the balls.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sam…"

"Yeah?"

"I do not understand the significance of the enchanted dustbins."

"What?" Dean's pretty sure by now that his brother must have a permanent kink in his back from the number of times he's twisted around so that he can look at Cas while he answers one of his questions since eye contact is essential in creating a healthy and comfortable relationship or some shit like that. Even though this question is kind of… well, what the fuck?

Even though they've been on a straight, flat road for the past hour (these damn prairie states are so _boring_) and there hasn't been another car in sight for ages, Dean glances in the rearview mirror. Mostly it's just so he can see Cas, who is sitting in the back seat as per usual reading—oh, _Christ_. He should have guessed. It's all Cas has been doing for the past few days, anyways, ever since Sam gave him the first book; and it just doesn't seem fair to Dean, that in any decision they make it'll be him against two Harry Potter fans.

"Oh, you mean way back at the start, with Mad-Eye Moody?" Cas slips a finger between the pages to hold his spot and nods; Dean is, frankly, surprised he doesn't break a bone in doing so, since _The Goblet of Fire_ looks to be approximately the size and weight of a large-ish brick. "Okay, yeah. It's okay, I only got that bit on my third time. So basically Barty Crouch Jr. tries to break into his house to kidnap Moody, only Moody's super paranoid from being an Auror so long so he ends up making a whole bunch of noise, which wakes up all the Muggles and alerts the Ministry and stuff. So Crouch has to change into Moody super fast and hide the real Moody, and then when the Ministry comes he makes some dustbins move around and says he heard an intruder. Which the Ministry has heard from him, like, five hundred times before so no one really pays much attention any more, and Crouch is safe."

Cas nods with the air of someone being given a detailed explanation for Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle and goes back to reading. "I can't believe you're doing this to him," Dean tells Sam resentfully. "If you convince him to go to ComicCon or something with you I swear will legitimately clobber you to death with that book."

"Hey, it's not _my_ fault he likes it. I just gave him the book," says Sam smugly.

"Whatever. You're his enabler."

"Seriously, Dean? It's Harry Potter, not cocaine."

Not, unfortunately, that Cas's disgusting geekiness has done anything to get rid of the BFB problem; so just to add insult to injury, Dean has to admit to himself for what is probably the first time in his life that he is lusting after a fanboy. Gross. Except not actually, since to his horror he occasionally finds himself wondering if Cas would be into role-playing at all, because he could definitely get behind (like, literally behind) the idea of Cas in one of those slutty school-girl uniforms, or—

So his life has come to this. It's just sad, really.

Also, for some reason now he can't stop picturing Cas dressed up as an owl. Which is weird and also not a good thing to mention around Cas, since last time he brought up the subject of wings Cas looked like he was about to burst into tears. But mostly it's just weird.

Aside from any bird-related fantasies though (seriously, _what the fuck_), Dean can proudly say he's got the BFB situation pretty much under control. Well—he can proudly say it inside his head, at least, since it's one of those take-it-to-your-grave secrets (and thanks to the Apocalypse, he may not have to wait very long for that). And by "pretty much under control" all he can really say is that he hasn't tried to undress Castiel in his sleep during those not-at-all-awkward nights when they have to share a bed. But still. It could be worse. The one good thing about the Apocalypse, besides the aforementioned fact that he might not have to keep his secret crush a secret much longer, is that he, Sam, and Cas are so busy rushing around trying to hold the world together that there isn't a whole lot of time to think about much else.

Take, for instance, the kraken. Despite the fact that all lore found on the creature states clearly that it ought to lurk in the depths of the seas off the coast of _Norway_, the big ugly tentacle-y thing has apparently decided to join the Apocalyptic monster party by taking up residence in a lake in upstate New York. Clearly it's either a baby or some sort of teacup variety, because it's only about the size of a house; even so, that's really frigging huge when you take into account that pretty much every inch of it is lethal in some way or another. As Dean gets slammed into a cliff-face for the sixth (or maybe seventh or maybe eighth and it's reached the point where he can't remember what number comes next) time, head ringing and vision going funny and every part of his body screaming in agony, he concludes that those Norwegians must be able to crush fucking boulders with their _teeth_ if bigger versions of this vicious bastard are what they deal with on a regular basis.

"Hurry the fuck up, you guys!" he wheezes to Sam and Cas, who are both locked in heated battle with the rest of the thing's arms from the shore. Sam's had the idea to burn any mangled stumps where they've managed to hack tentacles off to prevent them from growing back, the way Heracles did with the Hydra; which is actually a pretty good idea except for the fact that it takes a chainsaw going at full power a solid five minutes to cut through one of those rubbery appendages, and that's only provided the kraken is thoughtful enough to hold relatively still. They managed to get three off before it grabbed Dean, and Cas and Sam are each working away at a fourth and fifth, but it hasn't really slowed the beast down much. All that's happened, really, is that the lake is now full of black blood and scorched flesh and somewhere at the bottom a few huge limbs. So much for preserving the natural beauty of state parks.

"We're trying! Just hang on, okay?" Sam shouts back. His head jerks away, eyes and mouth squeezed tightly shut, as the blade of the saw sinks a couple of inches further to unleash a particularly nasty spray of dark goo. A few inches more and the arm is off entirely, dropping into the lake with a mighty splash; Sam promptly blow-torches the stump until the grey-pink skin chars black, and the creatures remaining arms (including the one currently attempting to squeeze Dean's internal organs into jelly) thrash wildly as it lets out a roar of pain. And maybe Dean is just so out of it he's seeing doubles, but it looks like the thing's still got just as many limbs as it did when they started. Wonderful. He's going to die _again._

"_This isn't working!_" Sam yells to Cas. Dean would roll his eyes—_no shit, Sherlock_—only they feel like they're about to pop out of his head.

Cas is bleeding and bruised and holding his weight in a way that says he's probably sprained his left ankle pretty badly. He must be scared out of his mind since _he can actually hurt now, he can actually die_ or at least infuriated by how weak he is without his angelic powers; but Dean has to hand it to him, because he looks just as calm as he did in the barn that first time they met. "So what now?" he calls back, still grimly hacking away at the nearest arm.

Sam ducks a wild swipe, and after that Dean doesn't see much. His head cracks against the stone behind him once again, splotches of darkness pop in front of his eyes to obscure almost his entire field of vision, everything sounds like it's coming from a very long ways away, and even though he knows it ought to have hurt his nerve endings have apparently had enough and are just going to pack it in right now. He knows he needs to stay conscious, which he's somehow, miraculously, managing to pull off; until he tries to breath in and instead of air his mouth fills with water.

Maybe Sam and Cas have succeeded in killing the kraken, or maybe the son-of-a-bitch has simply lost interest in Dean and decided to let go. Either way he's in the lake, choking ineffectively on the grimy liquid as it starts to fill his lungs. Somewhere in the very back corners of his mind he registers that he's free from the tentacle's grip, and also that he's drowning so he should probably start swimming; but aside from the fact that none of his limbs want to respond to his commands his head is so fucked over he can't even tell which way is up anymore so for all he knows he'll just be swimming further away from the surface.

He's heard that drowning is supposed to be one of the worst ways to die. Maybe that's true, or maybe it's just that dying kind of sucks in general. But to someone who's had his body torn to shreds by hellhounds, who's suffered forty years of torture in Hell, who's been dragged back out of the Pit only to be forced to try and clean up a world determined to drive itself to destruction, drowning is actually kind of… nice. Peaceful. There isn't even any panic; his brain has been bashed around too much for that. He's sorry to leave Sam, sorry to leave Cas, but he's so, so tired, and the last few clear spots in his vision are hazing over so why bother fighting anymore—

Except suddenly someone is pounding at his chest, and someone else is shouting at him or it might be the same person or it might be two people at once, he can't really tell. "Dean? Dean? Can you hear me? Come _on_, Dean, you can't do this to me, not again, just fucking say something you fucking asshole—"

He wants to yell at them to shut up because _I'm tired, I want to rest_; but when he opens his mouth all that happens is that he jerks over onto his side to vomit up mouthful after mouthful of gross-tasting lake water. After which movement of any sort takes far too much effort so he just lies face down in the grass, kind of nice grass actually, _really_ nice grass actually, in fact this grass is so nice he would take it out for dinner and let it share his pie and then take it home and make sweet passionate love to this grass and then—

—and then he passes out. Which is probably a good thing.

At some point he kind of wakes up, just enough to tell that he's in a car and his head is in someone's lap. Whoever the lap belongs to is stroking his forehead, brushing his short, damp hair away from his face. The way his mom used to do when he was little, when he was sick or had a nightmare or whatever. He knows he's supposed to be too old for that sort of thing now but it's soothing, comforting, and he doesn't want her to stop. He'd tell her that, and a whole lot more besides, if only he could remember how to work his vocal chords again. She doesn't stop, though. Mary was always good at guessing what he was thinking. He passes out again to the feel of her hand on his forehead.

The next time he wakes up he's in bed back at their motel. There is no sign of Mary because, he's now lucid enough to remember, she is dead. Sam, however, he can see passed out fully dressed on the bed beside his; and Cas, gorgeous Cas, is sitting in a chair on the other side of him, wearing the Superman t-shirt Sam got Dean for his birthday one year as a joke. Even though Cas is leaner than Dean the old shirt is stretched tight against his chest, which means Dean probably wouldn't fit into it at all, anymore. He guesses the only reason Cas is wearing it is that they've been too busy looking after him to get around to doing laundry—either that or Sam's got him hooked on comic books now, too. Dean really hopes it's the first option.

"Hello, Dean," says Cas. "How is your recovery process fairing?"

Dean coughs to try and clear his throat. It hurts. A lot. "Fantastic," he croaks. "You?"

"I'm well, thank you. My ankle took only two days to heal, which Sam said was very lucky. He bruised three ribs and we both received a number of cuts and abrasions, but by now we're healed, for the most part." Though it's almost unbelievable to have escaped something as huge as the kraken with so few injuries, Cas is frowning in a less-than-pleased way, and before Dean can ask what's wrong he adds, "These human bodies are extremely fragile. I didn't realize they would damage so easily, or take so long to repair themselves."

"Sorry to break it to you, but that's life." Dean's attempt to chuckle at Cas's disgruntlement turns into a grunt of pain as his chest protests the action. Great. What's the use of being alive if he can't even _laugh_?

"It would appear so," Cas agrees grudgingly. "At any rate, the kraken was destroyed. Sam threw an explosive device into its mouth and the whole thing exploded."

"Wow. I don't know whether to be impressed or terrified. Or grossed out. That sounds nasty."

"It did make an extremely large mess, if that's what you're alluding to."

They're both quiet for a moment. Dean debates using his unstable mental state as an excuse to ask Cas to get into bed with him, but ultimately decides against it; he's too sore to try anything fun, so the best he can hope for would be some girly cuddling shit from which his dignity might never recover.

"Hey, Cas?"

"Yes?"

"Remember that time I almost drowned?"

"Yes."

"Pretty funny, huh?"

"Not really," says Cas, and for the first time Dean realizes that Sam may not have been the only one scared of losing him. Before he has time to consider this, however, the monumental effort required to hold such a lengthy conversation catches up with him, and he's asleep again.


	4. Chapter 4

Once you get past the initial confusion and the unbearable pain and the need to sleep twenty-three hours a day, recovery is actually really, really boring. Dean's been here before, more times than he cares to count, and it's always the same: maybe you enjoy the break at first, a few days of getting to lie around in bed while everyone else does stuff, but after that you're too mended to want to sleep all day yet too unwell to be able to get out of bed and do stuff, so it just sucks.

Sam has him doing research, which is a nice thought to keep him included in their hunting except for the fact that Dean hates doing research. When he's trying to read the dull books Sam gives him from the library he can rarely make it through two chapters without regressing to drawing stick-figure flip-book-sequences in the corners of the pages, and when he's using Sam's laptop he inevitably ends up playing Tetris. Cas tries to help as well, spending whatever time he can spare by Dean's bed reading Harry Potter to him (Dean would feel flattered that Cas has gone all the way back to start at the first book for him if he didn't think Cas was just using this as an excuse to re-read the series). He's not particularly (or, like, at all) interested in Harry Potter but it's nice anyways, just being able to listen to Cas's gravelly voice without having to pay attention to all of the words.

After a while it becomes clear that somehow, incredibly, Sam's campaign to make Cas sexually autonomous has not lost its fire. Dean had figured that by this time either Sam had decided the plan had been successful and his work here was done, or he'd given the angel up as a lost cause; but when the three of them finally acknowledge the need to go grocery shopping and Sam keeps trying to convince Dean to come along with him, accented by bonus significant looks and pointedly raised eyebrows, Dean finally realized what's going on.

He glares at Sam in an attempt to communicate how fucking _messed up_ this whole situation is, and Sam stares right back in a way that say _it's Cas, we gotta do things differently with him_, and Dean makes a face to indicate not _this_ differently, thank you very much, he can just jerk off in the shower like the rest of us if he wants to, and Dean hasn't quite had time to decipher the look Sam's giving him in reply when Cas says aloud, "There seems to be a high level of nonverbal communication going on right now. Can someone please explain what's happening?"

"Oh, I just think it would be good for Dean to get out of the motel for a while. You know, stretch his legs and stuff. Get some fresh air," Sam says quickly.

It's a hard argument to fight against—until Dean points out that if he gets out of bed for more than five minutes he will either collapse or puke, probably both, to which Sam is forced to agree before storming out the door on his own.

"Sorry to disrupt your, ah, private time," says Dean awkwardly once his younger brother has left.

"It's okay," says Cas, sounding neither uncomfortable nor particularly put out.

"Do you actually, um…" Dean clears his throat, which has suddenly gone dry. _It's just out of curiosity, _he tells himself firmly. _Just to check if Sam is actually accomplishing anything_. "Do you actually use any of the, you know. The things?" His instinctive glance towards the all-too-familiar red-and-black bag sitting innocuously in the corner serves to clarify the admittedly kind of ambiguous question.

This time it's Castiel's turn to look awkward. "Um, well, not…not exactly, no. I mean, I looked at the instructions, but they seemed a little too complicated so, um…"

_Okay, you got your answer. Now change the subject. Say something else. Anything else. Talk about baseball—nothing suggestive about baseball. Unless you try really hard. Which you won't, obviously, because you and Cas are. Just. Friends._

"What about just, like, on your own?" asks Dean's treacherous mouth.

"Once," Cas admits wretchedly, and Dean's pretty sure this is the only guy on the planet who's actually feeling guilty about _not_ masturbating. "It didn't work very well. I don't think I did it right." While Dean's wondering what the hell Cas ended up _doing_, he adds, "Please don't tell Sam. I don't want to hurt his feelings."

"Deal…but seriously? _Once?_ That's not even…like, you've definitely had a boner more than once, and you're telling me you don't…?"

"Usually I just sort of wait for it to stop."

"Wow. Just…wow."

_End of conversation. Baseball, remember? It's time to talk about baseball. Ask if he's ever seen a game. Explain the rules. Anything. Just _stop_ asking about his dick._

"I could give you hand, if you wanted," Dean offers.

_What? No! Stop!_

"Show you what to do," he extrapolates.

_Stop. Come on! Baseball!_

"Just so that you can, you know, do it on your own, I mean," he adds, to be clear.

_Stopstopstopstopstop!_

"No pressure or anything," he finishes, successfully having dug himself as deep a hole as possible. "I mean it's your call."

Cas looks at him with his head tilted to the side as he considers what Dean's said.

"Okay," he agrees finally, as if Dean has offered to help him re-paint the walls of his kitchen or something. "Thanks."

"Okay," Dean echoes. Is this actually happening? It can't actually be happening. No way. "Cool. So, like…now?"

"Sure. Oh, but… I'm not…" He gestures vaguely to the general area of his crotch.

"Yeah, no worries. Just, um, come over here."

Cas comes to sit on the edge of Dean's bed, hands folded neatly in his lap. Dean can't help thinking that what Sam was doing was totally normal in comparison to this, which is wrong in so many ways he doesn't even know where to start. He should back out now, pretend the whole thing was a joke or pretend to fall asleep and say it was just the concussion talking or pretend to be possessed by rabid homosexual phantom unicorns or _something_, there's still time to back out—

"If you want me to stop just let me know, okay?" is what he says instead.

"Okay," says Cas.

Still with a surreal sense of _how the fuck is this actually happening_, Dean hauls himself upright. It takes a second for the wave of nausea that hits him to pass before he can crawl over to Cas, and he can't help wishing he were actually well enough to enjoy this (not that he ought to be enjoying it at all since it's just a favour for Cas, just him helping out a friend). The fact that his heart has apparently decided to start a really bad, really loud garage band in his chest isn't helping matters any, either.

Somehow he manages to clamber on to straddle Cas's lap, resting his forehead against the angel's for a moment while he recovers his balance in a gesture that's a little more intimate than he intended. He's not really sure how to start—well, obviously he knows _how_ to start, what to do, but should he say something? Is Cas expecting Dean to talk him through the whole thing? He's not going to want to take notes or anything, is he? No, of course not. That's stupid. Though he knows well enough not to put anything past Cas… goddamn. _If you're actually going to do this, just start already._

Gently he pries Cas's hand apart—they're twined pretty tightly together, and along with the glint of panic in his eyes Dean realizes the guy must be kind of nervous—and moves them out of the way. Cas sets them awkwardly beside him on the bed, clearly not knowing at all what the hell he's supposed to be doing; Dean almost wants to laugh at how ridiculous it all is. This whole thing is undoubtedly the most awkward experience he has ever or will ever have in his entire life, even if he somehow becomes immortal and goes on to have hundreds of other awkward experiences involving women's lingerie and the President of the United States and a banana on live television . He'd definitely laugh if he weren't involved because, come on, it's kind of hilarious from an outsider's point of view; but from an insider's point of view it's stupid and uncomfortable and a little bit mortifying and also kind of crazy how much he wants to touch Cas right now.

So he does, reaching down gingerly to palm Cas's crotch through the thick denim of his jeans. It takes a very awkward few moments, and Dean starts to worry that an atmosphere of such astronomic awkwardness is enough to deter a boner so he'll just sit here groping Cas uselessly until Sam gets back; but then Cas makes a small noise in the back of his throat and spreads his legs slightly to allow Dean better access. Okay. This is working. They're actually getting somewhere.

Next step—he has to adjust his own position and hope that Cas doesn't feel his hard-on, because friends giving friends obliging hand-jobs shouldn't get hard-ons from doing so—Dean flicks open the button at the top of Cas's jeans and slips his hand inside, underneath the band of his underwear to dig his fingers gently through the coarse hair until his hand wraps around the base of his cock.

"Gimme a hand here," he murmurs, trying not to think about the fact that he's currently holding an angel of the Lord's dick. "Get your pants off. Just down to the knees is fine." So Cas nods, apparently currently lacking the ability to speak, and squirms out of his jeans until they've slipped down to pool around his ankles.

He slides his thumb down the underside, telling himself he doesn't want to go too fast and freak Cas out but mostly just wanting to be able to relish this moment since it'll probably never come again. Cas is pretty damn hard by now, he can tell by touch alone, and if he looks down…he shouldn't look down, though, this is just a favour, remember, so don't look… just start stroking, nice and slow now and _shit_ his cock is hot. Dean's almost surprised there's still enough blood in his body to put that gorgeous pink flush in his cheeks.

"Like this…you paying attention?" Cas nods again, a little more lazily this time, and the fact that his eyelids are drooping half shut makes Dean think he's probably lying. His thumb presses at the slit, collecting the liquid that's already started to leak out and smearing it over the head to slick it down, painting hot stripes down the sides; what he _really_ wants to do more than anything right now is use his tongue instead, suck Cas back as far as he can take him and just let him fuck his mouth so hard he won't be able to speak properly for a week, but since this is supposed to be a practical demonstration and he's almost certain Cas can't suck his own dick he doesn't exactly have a legitimate excuse to try that out. He pushes that thought away—this is about Cas, _not_ about him, _at all_—and wraps his whole hand around Cas's cock, adding a twisting motion as he continues the up-and-down. "Nice, right?"

"_Yes_," Cas breathes, head rolling back to expose the pale skin of his neck stretched tight over his throat. It's too perfect, too white and untouched; Dean wants to lick, kiss, bite, suck, _anything_, to see bruises blooming there and know they're from him and to taste Cas's skin—and that kind of freaks him out, to think that about Cas, except he's turned on like crazy right now and okay, maybe he kind of likes to bite so that's probably all it is. Just another sex thing. "Dean, _Dean_…"

His grip tightens slightly to add more pressure, still soaking up the heat of all that blood flow. "I know, I know, it's good. I'm adding the other hand now, can you feel? Can you feel what I'm doing?" He reaches behind his cock—he can't help looking down just to see what he's doing and _Jesus_, Cas looks fucking gorgeous with all those veins swollen red and purple and the head soaking wet—to roll Cas's balls in his other hand. They're heavy, way heavier than he expected, so clearly Cas wasn't kidding about the once-and-it-didn't-really-work thing. "Shit, you're ready for this. But you gotta do a little more, come on…move with me, I know you want to, it'll feel even better, promise…"

He hardly has to finish speaking before Cas is rolling his hips up into Dean's hand, arms bracing himself behind his back to get more leverage as he fucks into the man's grip, and the moan that slips between Cas's slightly parted lips seems to resonate in Dean's own cock, which is currently protesting the blatant and extremely unfair show of favouritism taking place while it is in need of just as much attention. "Yeah, that's right," says Dean, and he might be embarrassed about how much it sounds like he's panting (because he basically is) except that from how Cas is snapping his hips forward now and still gasping his name in a way that really shouldn't be as sexy as it is he's almost certain Cas is way too far gone to notice anything except the _fuck-all amazing_ touch setting all the nerve endings in the vicinity on fire.

"Dean, Dean, please…"

"Yeah, I got you, don't worry. You're almost there, come on now…"

It's ending too fast—not surprising, all things considered, but Dean still almost wants to cry like a child who's having his new favourite toy taken away over the fact that he will probably never get to hold Cas's hot, heavy, fucking _wet_ cock again. Not cry over the fact that he and Cas will try to go back to being just friends, obviously, since they still _are_ just friends and any non-friendship-related feelings towards him are strictly physical. Just cry over the fact that Cas's body is so Greek-god fantastic (from the waist down, at least, and by the way how unfair is it that Dean only got to play with a half-naked angel) it ought to be, like, a national monument or something. The eighth wonder of the world. On the cover of the next issue of National Geographic as the single irrefutable proof to support Darwin's theory of evolution. That's how Dean feels about it, anyways. Vaguely he wonders when the body of the one-time angel with a poker eternally rammed up his ass got so damn sexy, because he's almost one hundred percent certain he didn't pop a boner the first time Cas walked into that barn (almost. Not completely. If he did, though, he was definitely too terrified to notice).

He'd slow down except that he doesn't think he can anymore, what with the way his blood is pounding and the way he's practically getting himself off as well just by doing this and, oh yeah, the way Cas isn't awkward _at all_ anymore because he's too busy moaning and thrusting and basically discovering for the first time what Dean and Sam and every other male in the history of the world discovered when they were thirteen and yeah, _it's really fucking hot to watch. _To _do_—because _shit_, he's doing this, isn't he? He's actually doing this to Cas. So instead Dean finds himself speeding up, realizing belatedly that he stopped giving Cas instructions a while ago thereby kind of failing at the whole pretense of presenting the guy with a proper demo, not that he cares anymore because he's currently massaging Cas's balls, and _definitely _not that Cas could possibly care since his vocabulary suddenly seems to be limited to the words "Dean", "please", and "more".

And then suddenly Cas is arching his back, pushing into Dean more urgently as his eyes snap open so that Dean is forced to acknowledge that the only thing he likes better than Cas's blue eyes is Cas's blue-ringed almost _black_ eyes, and he's coming in long, hot spurts. Dean keeps jerking him off right to the end, in theory due to the fact that clearly Cas's pipes _really_ needed to be cleaned (and if it means he gets to keep holding the guy's cock, well then, so much the better). Eventually Cas collapses on the bed, thoroughly spent, to stare up at Dean in barely masked awe. "I didn't…I didn't know it felt like, like…_that_," he says breathlessly.

"Pretty good, huh?" Dean agrees weakly. He hopes Cas can't see the wet spot on the front of his boxers from his own leaking cock, still rock hard and demanding urgent attention. He's also trying not to throw up, because the way his heart is racing from getting Cas off seems to be resonating unpleasantly in his still-fucked-up body—it _figures_ his one opportunity to try anything with Cas happens when he feels like he got hit by a truck.

Doing his best to ignore his insistent boner he slides off Cas's lap and crawls back into bed, hoping Sam returns soon (though maybe _after_ Cas gets his pants back on and one of them cleans the jizz off the sheets); Cas may be riding out the post-first-orgasm haze, but Dean's fairly certain that once he recovers a little things are going to go right back to being awkward as hell. Oh, sure, they'll get back on track—after all it was just a friendly hand-job, nothing serious (_right?)_—but what exactly are you supposed to say to your best friend after you've just considerately jerked him off?

"And you can just…do it to yourself?" Cas asks, still apparently caught up in the wondrous discovery he's just been assisted in making.

"Yep," says Dean.

"Whenever you like?"

"Well, doing it in public is generally frowned upon…but yeah, basically."

"It wasn't like that when _I_ did it," says Cas, sounding somewhat resentful.

""I guess you just need some practice, then." Dean closes his eyes. He's still feeling kind of sick, which he thinks might partly have something to do with an overwhelming sense of guilt, and right now he can't help wishing Cas were someplace far, far away so he wouldn't have to think about what he's just done or deal with the inevitable, looming awkwardness.

Except he's forgetting that Cas is, well, _Cas_. That Cas doesn't have any idea this is less-than-normal behaviour for two people who are both sober and are supposed to be just friends. That Cas kind of has a ridiculous amount of faith in Dean, so if Dean says he's just helping him out Cas assumes crazily that Dean _must just be helping him out_. So once he's recovered Cas cleans up, since one look at Dean seems to tell him Dean's in no state to do it even if he doesn't know exactly why not, and puts his pants back on, and by the time Sam gets back Cas is sitting cross-legged beside Dean on the bed and they're watching an old episode of _Star Trek_ just because it's on so what the hell.

Sam looks from Dean to the TV and back. Cas of course has already unwittingly established a reputation for innate geekiness, but Dean makes a big deal of at least pretending to be above all that. "They were out of toothpaste, Captain Kirk," he says, beginning to unpack everything the store _hadn't_ been out of. Seriously—_toothpaste?_ How does that even happen?

"This is _Voyageur,_ dumbass," Dean shoots back without looking away from the screen. "And I guess we'll just have to get it someplace else, then."

Sam makes a scathing remark about Dean's closeted love of _Star Trek_, Dean shoots back pointing out he's pretty sure he's seen Sam's old Yoda t-shirt lurking in the bottom of Sam's bag so how about he shuts up, Cas cuts in wondering what a Vulcan is and also could they possibly go get burgers soon; and just like that, it's back to normal. Apparently Dean's just gotten the sexual equivalent of the get-out-of-jail-free card in Monopoly—get one free hand-job without ruining your friendship. But that's it, just one. It happened, it was awesome, he'll probably get off to the memory for a good few weeks at least—but it's over. Done. Just one. Cas can do it himself now, after all. He doesn't need Dean's help, and with Sam around he'll be sure to get ample opportunity to practice. Just one.


	5. Chapter 5

Okay, just two. But that's _it_. Like maybe they went around the board so many times that they got through the whole Community Chest pile, and then Dean landed on Community Chest again and the get-out-of-jail-free card was back on top. Yeah. If they've gone around that many times, though, it must be almost game over, so this is the absolute _last time._

Anyways. This is different than the previous session. Cas would probably never figure this out on his own, so it's practically Dean's _duty_ as a friend to show him how it works. That's what Dean tells himself, at least, as he scissors open the two fingers he's currently got up Castiel's ass.

It's two weeks after that first time, and how they got here went something like this: the three of them had been out together earlier that morning, questioning witnesses in what looks like a fairly typical vengeful-spirit-type-deal. They'd talked to the local sheriff, the detective assigned to the case, a handful of witnesses with some friends and family of the victims thrown in there as well, the librarian in charge of local history. Then they'd headed back to their current motel to decide on a plan of action, at which point Sam discovered he'd lost his phone. So off _he_ went, rather irritably, to retrace their entire morning in an attempt to find the damn thing, leaving Dean and Cas back at the motel to supposedly come up with something on their own.

That's even how Dean started out, honestly; sure, there was a neon sign flashing on and off in big fat rainbow letters in his head reminding him of what had happened last time the two were alone, but since it was probably the last thing on Cas's mind right then he commandeered Sam's laptop to pull up a floor-plan of the old apartment building where all three "accidents" had taken place. He was actually concentrating, too, taking note of the heating ducts and the supply closets and the basement and the elevator shafts, when Cas cleared his throat and said, "Dean, um…"

"Yeah?" Dean asked, only half listening. Garbage chutes on every floor, and even though all three of them are probably too big to fit it might be worth checking out anyhow, just in case.

"Uh…nothing, actually. Never mind."

Dean's eyes flicked up momentarily to look at him, sitting across the table packing rock salt into shotgun cartridges in case of any run-ins with the spirit. He was staring down intently at his work, apparently very focused; so Dean shrugged and said, "Okay," before going back to his work.

Except every time he looked up after that Castiel's eyes skittered away nervously in a way that said clearly he'd been staring at Dean until Dean threatened to notice, and after a few minutes he happened to glance at the table in front of Cas where he could see Cas had only managed to assemble one more shell since he'd last checked. "Seriously, man, what's up?" he asked.

"I…it's nothing. Really."

"C'mon, Cas."

Cas still hesitated, apparently torn between embarrassment and desperately wanting to get out whatever was on his mind. Finally, face starting to flush red before he'd gotten three words out, he mumbled, "I was just wondering if you could, um… maybe, if you don't mind, do that thing you did to me before."

Dean stared at him. There was definitely no way Cas was asking for what Dean thought he was asking.

"Um," said Cas.

"You mean the…?"

Cas nodded, clearly relieved not to have to explain any further. "If it's not too much trouble. I can never seem to get it that way on my own, and…"

Cas eyed him hopefully, wearing almost the exact same expression he used when asking for a second hamburger at a restaurant (which, by the way, seemed to be becoming nearly as serious as Sam's past addiction to demon blood, although thankfully with less Apocalyptic consequences). Dean opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again because what the hell was he supposed to do now? He'd sworn that was going to be the first and last time it happened, that he'd never bring the matter up again except in the privacy of his own head—and he probably wouldn't have, either, since he only had to make it a few more months before the world ended anyhow. But clearly it had been just as memorable for Cas as it had been for Dean, and if _Cas_ was the one asking for it…well. It was just another favour, right? Just another chance for Dean to help his friend out with being human, and since Cas had kind of fallen thanks to him in the first place, how could he refuse?

"Okay," he said, and tried to stamp out the little burst of excitement that flared even higher when Cas's eyes lit up. "But let's try something else this time. Maybe it'll work better for you. Toss me that bag, would you?"

The expectation in Cas's expression was quickly replaced by anxiety. "Really? What you did before was fine, you don't have to…"

"Just toss me the bag, Cas," Dean said firmly. He had to have _some_ excuse to tell himself, some made-up reason that this _wasn't_ going to turn into him fucking his best friend all the time. Sam definitely considered getting Cas acquainted with various sex toys important since he had bought the things in the first place—Dean was just doing his part to help out as well.

He dug through, trying to ignore all the partner stuff (clearly Sam had been so busy focusing on Cas's burgeoning sexuality he'd totally overlooked the guy's complete social incompetence), and finally settled on a vibrator. It was blue and black, to make it distinctly Manly, and not so large that it would be excruciating for a first time. Sam had been thoughtful enough to get lube as well, which was handy; speaking from experience, no matter how sexy whatever substitute was settled on sounded at the time, it unavoidably became far less sexy when you were getting ridden so hard you could practically smell the condom rubber burning.

"Are you sure?" Cas asked, peering apprehensively over Dean's shoulder. "It looks kind of…"

"Cas. You think what w—what I did last time was good? That was just the tip of the iceberg, man," Dean said soothingly. In truth he was feeling more than a little tense himself—it had been a very, _very_ long time since he'd been on either end of anything like this. "You gotta trust me."

"I trust you."

He ignored the random surge of panic those words, and the way they were spoken, caused, and instead just said, "Okay, well, um… strip down and get on the bed, I guess."

Cas obeyed willingly and Dean tried not watch, except that he did watch out of the corner of his eye, of course, as if somehow he could hide the fact that he was watching from himself. _Deep breaths_, he told himself. This is fine. It's no big deal. Just another favour for a friend. A really good-looking, really naked, _extremely fuckable_ friend. Stay professional. Or whatever.

"Any time you want me to stop just say," he instructed, just like he'd done the first time, and Cas nodded.

"It'll be a little uncomfortable at first, but it gets better." In one hand he took Cas's cock, pulling in slow, gentle strokes designed just to get him tingling a little. Cas closed his eyes, head rolling over to one side slightly where he lay on his back and a lazy smile playing across his face; Dean was almost tempted to give it to him like this, the way he'd asked originally—except no, that didn't fit with his whole showing-Cas-the-ropes bullshit and also he actually kind of really wanted to do this to him.

Which is basically how he ended up where he is now, one hesitant finger, a generous amount of lube, and an even more generous amount of comforting words later: two fingers knuckle-deep inside his best friend, gently stretching him out since aside from the metaphorical poker Dean's often noted Cas has never had anything up his ass before. He adds a third, just to be sure, and when Cas is good and stretched out he crooks his fingers, since so far Cas still appears rather dubious and he wants to give him a taste of the merits of this particular method before sticking anything else up there and _oh, okay, there we go_—

Cas makes a surprised noise, and Dean can see his fingers clutching at the bedspread beneath him as he tries to wriggle himself back into the position where Dean's fingers have gotten something buzzing inside him. "_Dean_…"

"Uh-uh," says Dean, grinning. "Just wait." His fingers slip out, still sticky with lube, and his other hand stops its attentive rubbing, also sticky from the pre-come already leaking from the tip.

"_No_, what are you…you can't just _stop_, please, Dean—"

"_Relax_. It's okay, Cas, I got you…" He knows he ought to be ashamed of how much he likes this, how much he likes having Cas depend on him like this, pleading for more whenever he stops, because this is for _Cas_, remember, not for him; except right now he's too high to care. High on the power of being able to do this to Cas, high on the sight of the guy (_completely_ naked this time, which is fucking _awesome_) squirming on the bed, high on the fact that _holy shit_ two seconds ago he literally had one hand around his cock and the other inside him.

He slicks up the vibrator, maybe a little more slowly than he has to so that he can smirk at the way it teases Cas; then he slides it in, still slow, still loving the way Cas is pleading. No hand on his cock this time since both are concentrated on the vibrator, on adjusting it until he sees Cas's hands grabbing at the bedspread again and he knows it's right against his prostate. He pretends to adjust it a little bit more anyways, just to see the way Cas's head presses deeper into the mattress as it rubs that spot inside him.

"I'm gonna turn it on now—only for a second, so you can see what it feels like and then if you don't like it we'll stop. Sound good?"

"Yes—"

So Dean turns it onto the lowest setting possible, and Cas's whole body jerks up off the bed as if it's been electrified. He flicks it off again just as quickly, even though it's pretty damn clear Cas definitely liked it, and asks innocently, "How was that? I can leave if off if you don't—"

"_No_," Cas growls.

"Sure? It's not a problem—"

"_Turn it back on, Dean_." The way he says it, the authority and power and whatever, reminds Dean that Cas might be a human right now, a kind of ridiculous human who can't turn the shower on without help and apparently can't jerk off without help either and never wants to eat anything except burgers—but before this he was an angel. Before he could burn your face off without even touching you, or drag your broken soul out of Hell and put your body back together around it. Maybe Dean's been telling himself that this weird attraction thing is recent, that it's just a result of spending so much time around a pretty good-looking guy when he hasn't been getting enough sex elsewhere. The truth is, though, all that power—the way he'd walk into a room, or more often just _appear_, and the way he'd fight demons like it was nothing, and the way he'd get right up in Dean's space when Dean was being a bitch—well, all that got Dean kind of hot then, too.

"Okay," says Dean. He clicks it back up to the first setting and Cas lets out a low, throaty moan, and all he has to say about this is that Cas may think Dean sucks for teasing him like that but the truth is Cas is the biggest, most clueless cocktease the world has to offer. Jesus. He's just grinding down into Dean's hand, body lifting off the bed slightly when he arches his back with each new wave of pleasure; neither of them is touching his cock, which is still sticking up hot and hard, and this would undoubtedly go faster if Dean started multitasking again but he really, really wants to see if he can get Cas off just like this. Besides, this way leaves one hand free to palm his own aching crotch through his jeans because this is so fucking stupid but watching Cas get off is almost as good as Dean fucking the guy himself (not that he'd _know_, and not that he ever will know, so there technically isn't any basis for comparison; but his cock is so hard right now it practically _hurts_).

"More," Cas gasps, and Dean turns it up a notch higher and _fuck_, if Cas doesn't come soon Dean's going to beat him to it despite the fact that this is still supposedly just a favour.

And finally, thank God fucking _finally_, just when Dean's eyes are starting to fucking _water_ from being so turned on and not being able to anything about it, the piece of plastic vibrating against his prostate manages to squeeze an orgasm out of Cas without anyone touching his dick—except maybe _squeeze_ isn't the right word because it basically looks like someone took an mind-blowing, life-altering orgasm and just blatantly beat him over the head with it, which doesn't make a lot of sense but Dean's kind of having trouble thinking in a straight line right now, or even just thinking at all, and _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck keep it together, come on, fuck, FUCK—_

Shit.

Well, at least he won't have to worry about hiding his boner from Cas, or from Sam when Sam gets back, which could be any minute.

Also, he's going to need a new pair of underwear. And pants. And possibly socks too, if he doesn't hurry up.

He pulls the vibrator out as quickly as he can while still trying to be gentle and mutters, "Gimme a sec."

"Hmmm," Cas agrees vaguely. Dean figures he's got a few minutes before the post-orgasm bliss fades enough for Cas to actually focus on anything.

Grabbing some clean clothes from his bag he heads to the bathroom to strip down, and he can feel his face burning when he's eventually faced to acknowledge the fact that yes, he literally did just cream his pants. From assisting his supposedly platonic (yeah, right) best friend get off. Which was not supposed to do anything _at all_ for him. Because he didn't even suggest it this time, it was Cas's idea, he was just going along with it since apparently human Cas is one horny son-of-a-bitch and oh, God, this whole thing is a _mess_ and he's not just talking about his pants here. Why the hell did he ever think it was a good idea to volunteer himself for this in the first place?

By the time he's dressed and stuck his dirty clothes at the very bottom of their laundry pile and cleaned off the vibrator and shoved all that stuff back in the bag which in turn has been shoved back under the bed, Cas seems to have pretty much recovered.

"Wow," he says, using the cloth Dean tosses him to wipe himself down. "That was… wow."

Dean grunts a less-than-enthusiastic response. He's still trying to wrap his head around the fact that even though his dick wasn't actually, physically touching Cas in any way and definitely wasn't up his ass, they both enjoyed it so much he's forced to acknowledge that they basically just had weird messed-up sex. It's kind of hard to file the incident away with where he'd managed to stick the last one under "friendly assisted masturbation" when both parties involved ended up getting off.

Cas, however, hasn't noticed anything wrong. "Thanks," he adds fervently. "I—"

"Don't," Dean snaps.

"What?" Cas stares at him in surprise. Admittedly it's fairly justified surprise, since Dean was a perfectly willing participant and it's not like he can see inside Dean's head anymore, or at least Dean really hopes he can't.

"Just…don't, okay? Don't thank me."

"I didn't mean… I just wanted to…" He's still regarding Dean anxiously, a few steps closer now because Cas wouldn't be Cas if he had any concept of personal space. It's almost like he's compensating for his lack of ability to read body language by getting up super close, like maybe being two inches from someone's face makes it easier to read what they're not saying out loud. "Are you angry? Why are you angry?"

"I'm not angry," Dean says, in what is probably the least convincing not-angry voice in the universe. He _is_ angry, just not with Cas. Well, not _tenably_ angry with Cas, at least, since it's not actually fair to be mad at someone just for existing and being attractive and wanting sex and asking for something you offered in the first place and trusting you. Mostly just angry with himself for being such a fuck-up.

"I'm not angry," he repeats. It doesn't sound any more convincing the second time. "I—can you just—you know what, never mind. Just ignore me."

"But—"

"Just ignore me, _okay?_"

"…okay." And now he can tell Cas is going to mope like a puppy that just got kicked, which will make Dean feel worse about himself which will make his mood even worse as well, and all in all it's a huge fucking relief when Sam walks through the door proudly holding his phone in front of him.

"It was at the Turners' house," Sam declares, as if this is some stunning revelation that should have them all on the edge of their seats. "I guess it must have fallen out of my pocket when I was sitting on the couch. They didn't even notice until I came back, so I didn't have to explain why Agent Simpson has a phone in the name of Sam Winchester. Anyways." For the first time he takes in Dean, glowering at the screen of Sam's laptop, and Cas, across the table from him morosely drawing shapes in a pile of spilled salt. "Uh, is everything…?"

"Everything's fine," Dean says, rising from his seat abruptly. He shrugs on his jacket, grabs a gun, and as he's heading past Sam out the door adds, "C'mon, let's go fuck shit up."

Inside he hears Sam ask Cas what's going on. For a moment he freezes, wondering if Cas is just going to tell Sam everything because he doesn't not to; but evidently Cas is getting a hang of this much better than Dean had thought, or maybe he just wants to work out for himself what he did to upset Dean before sharing anything with Sam, because Dean catches a suggested, "Cabin fever?" from Cas. It's not entirely unreasonable, considering how recently Dean's been let off bed rest, and it's also not like Sam isn't used to Dean being moody, so by the time they're all in the car on the way over to take care of this ghost the issue seems to have been dropped.

Because the entire universe is apparently out to fuck with him, it is of course his night to share a bed with Cas. He lies on his side of the bed staring up at the ceiling long after everyone else has fallen asleep, listening to the rhythmic sound of Cas's breathing beside him mixed with, a little quieter since he's farther away, Sam's in the next bed. He tells himself it's not that bad, not really, since it's not like the BFB is a surprise to him or something he's particularly in denial about (in his own head, at least), so obviously seeing Cas like that, getting to _do_ that to Cas, is going have a serious effect on his ability to control his dick. So that's okay, and as long as Cas didn't notice—and Dean is, like, ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure this is indeed the case—and as long as Sam doesn't find out either and start thinking Dean's in love (ugh, _Sam_) then Dean's doing okay, right? Right.

…right?

How come he's still awake, then?

Well, whatever. It doesn't matter, because that may make two times more than expected, but it is _absolutely the_ _absolute last time_. No more charitable hand-jobs, no more Anal Vibrators 101, no more _anything_ that is in any tiny possible way even slightly sexual. He could, like, _maybe_ be persuaded to buy the guy some condoms against the staggering odds of Cas actually managing to get that far with anyone (besides Dean, that is. _Shut up, brain). Maybe._ Though Sam would probably be so ecstatic he'd go out and buy fifty different kinds himself to give to Cas, so Dean wouldn't even have to worry about it. But this, this basically having sex with Cas, this has to stop. Never again.


	6. Chapter 6

Fuck.

Seriously. Fuck.

Fuckshitcockballsgoddamnitfu cking_fuck_.

As in, _how the fuck does this keep happening?_

And also, _fuck that feels good._

This time, Sam's at the dentist. How random is that? Dean can't even remember the last time he went to a dentist. But the other day Sam got his head whacked against a metal railing by a demon and chipped one of his teeth. They're used to scars by now, but this particular scar is unfortunately rather sharp, and seeing as he keeps cutting his mouth on it Dean eventually managed to convince him to go get it fixed. He left a couple hours ago, and Dean decided to be proactive about the whole Cas situation by saying he had to go make Cas some more fake ID's (while Sam and Dean pretty much have all the bases covered by now, Cas's more recent collection is lacking in several areas so this was actually kind of true). Sam was happy that Dean seemed to apparently have gotten on board with his whole Cas-needs-alone-time-to-discover-himself plan, Dean was relieved not to have to spend any time awkwardly alone with Cas in the motel room trying not to think about last time or the time before, and Cas—well, Cas was pissed because he'd just seen the fourth Harry Potter movie and _they totally didn't do it right_, but other than that he didn't seem particularly upset about being left on his own to brood over this.

So, there. It had worked. Dean was safe.

Or he would have been, if three hours later he hadn't returned to find that Sam was still absent. Apparently the dentist had decided to give him a whole frigging new set of teeth or something.

So once again it's just Cas and Dean and the BFB alone in their room. Even that's not so bad, actually, because the BFB has decided to maintain a low profile at the moment and Dean is trying to teach Cas how to play Cheat (card games in general have proven somewhat of a challenge to the angel, but the concept of a game where some kinds of cheating are allowed and others are not seems to have the same effect on Castiel as the concept of an infinitely expanding universe does on regular people). It's almost like they're just regular friends hanging out on a regular afternoon. No awkward boners-slash-hand-jobs-slash-anal penetration, no Apocalypse, no weird sexually progressive younger brother. Normal.

Until Cas slices his finger open on one of the cards.

Dean's not even sure how it happens, because the cards aren't even that _sharp_. It's one of those things that would be really hard if you _tried_ to do it—like this one time when Dean and Sam were playing tag when they were little and Sam was It so Dean was running and there was a pole and he couldn't decide whether to go around it on the left or right so he ended up slamming right into it, even though it was in the middle of a field that was wide open on either side—but Cas manages to do it by accident. Cas manages to do a fucking good job of it, too; from the amount of blood you'd think he sliced a finger off or something. Dean's cracking up, since for some reason it seems hysterically funny. Cas is freaking out, which just makes it even funnier; and then after Dean's spent, like, ten minutes trying to find their lousy excuse for a first-aid kit he remembers they left it in the back of the Impala, currently parked at whatever dentist office Sam's chosen to patronize, and at this point Dean is practically in tears from laughing so much.

In the end they walk over to the nearest drug store, Cas clutching the old t-shirt Dean found for him to wrap around his finger in an attempt to stop the bleeding somewhat. Dean goes to the aisle with Band-aids and shit to pick out bandages, gauze, surgical tape, and aerosol antiseptic. Cas asks what the difference is between antiseptic and Polysporin, which is beside the antiseptic. Dean doesn't know, except that Polysporin is thicker and doesn't sting as much and you can put it on stuff like burns as well. They go wait in line, Cas's blood slowly seeping through the t-shirt. Dean's sugar deficiency is acting up, but since this is apparently the worst stocked drugstore in the entire world the only non-revolting thing they have is blue raspberry Pop Rocks, which he reluctantly adds to the pile in his arms anyways (baskets are for sissies). Cas, whose attention has been distracted from Dean's sugar dilemma by one of the bottom shelves nearby, asks after a moment, "What is the purpose of making flavoured condoms?"

Sam's already taken the trouble to explain the general premise-slash-purpose of regular condoms, but as they're waiting in that ridiculously long line (this is supposed to be a drugstore, not a ride at Disneyland) Dean finds himself suddenly given the dubious pleasure of explaining the joys of oral sex to Cas. It's actually not too awkward, surprisingly, maybe because Sam isn't there or maybe because after jerking a guy off then stretching him out and sticking a vibrator up his ass in a supposedly friendly manner nothing else can possibly compare in awkwardness levels.

Cas listens expressionlessly, ignoring the stares of the people around the pair that indicate Dean hasn't quite managed to keep the conversation from being overheard; then, since Cas seems to assume (not unreasonably) that the Winchesters are the absolute experts when it comes to anything sexual, he says, "I see. How do they taste?"

"What?"

"They're supposed to be artificially flavoured, and Skittles are artificially flavoured and they taste good, but cough syrup is also artificially flavoured and it tastes disgusting. So do they taste good or not?"

"I, uh…" Dean stares at him, kind of at a loss for words. It occurs to him that the reason he doesn't have an answer is that, somehow, he's never been given the opportunity to find out. He sucked other guys off occasionally, sure; but… never with a flavoured condom, apparently. "I honestly don't know."

They look at each other.

Fifteen minutes later they're back in the motel room. Cas's hand has been cleaned and bandaged, and they're ripping open condoms to conduct a diagnostic taste test. It's kind of weird, yeah, but probably the weirdest thing about it is that there's actually nothing implicitly sexual in what they're doing. They are literally just… licking condoms. Because Cas is curious about everything, including this, and for once Dean's in a good mood and Cas's insatiable curiosity is making him curious, too.

"Cherry's okay," says Cas, after letting the taste settle on his palate for a moment.

"I'm doing grape now, it's—" As soon as his tongue makes contact with the rubber Dean's face contorts with disgust. "Ugh. Grape is fucking nasty."

"Cough syrup?" asks Cas, who has already learned the Golden Rule of artificial flavouring after a terrifying bout of almost having a cold, i.e. that nearly everything supposedly "grape-flavoured" tastes like medicine.

"Cough syrup," Dean confirms. "Okay, what's next? How about banana?"

It will be an eternal mystery to Dean as to how their afternoon goes from innocently (if strangely) tasting condoms to Cas sucking Dean's lemon-flavoured cock.

Specifically, some questions floating around the back of his mind as he grits his teeth to keep from moaning and tries not to buck so hard he chokes Cas are:

How did Cas end up naked?

How did _he_ end up naked?

_Why_ did he consider it a good opportunity to follow Sam's school of thought by giving Cas a live-action demonstration of how to put a condom on especially when

He wasn't even drunk? Furthermore,

What possessed him to agree when Cas got on his knees and requested to test Dean's recent explanation of blowjobs out for himself?

And, later:

_Why didn't they stop after round one_?

There are also two more very important questions that occur to Dean as he lies a

few feet away from Cas on the floor some time later, sweaty and sticky and bodies feeling a little like jelly in a good way from a kind of ridiculous number of orgasms and both totally exhausted. The first is quite straightforward and also quite easily answered: did Cas enjoy that as much as he did? And there aren't a whole lot of absolute truths Dean can rely on in his life but after the past who-knows-how-long-they-were-at-it-for one of those is that yes, Cas incontrovertibly _did_ enjoy it. He made it extremely clear that he enjoyed it, in fact. So basically, the afternoon's events have proven, if nothing else, that Cas likes fucking Dean just as much as Dean likes fucking Cas. Which is good to know, and makes Dean feel a little less guilty for what he originally thought was just taking advantage of him.

However, it still leaves the second question unanswered: what to do now?

By now it seems pretty self-evident that Dean's whole abstinence-from-Cas plan is an epic failure, since he's fallen (or maybe jumped is a better word) off the wagon at every possible opportunity to do so. Anyways, there's hardly any point attempting to keep that up now; for one thing, there is absolutely no _way_ he could _possibly_ pass this off, even in his own head, as just another favour, since Cas did a good half of the "favouring" himself. For another, as Sam has been relentlessly drilling into Cas's head(and Dean's by association, since he usually has the misfortune to present as well), there's nothing inherently good or bad about sex. It's all about consent, right, and since both Dean and Cas have conceded _with enthusiasm_, and since both Dean and Cas clearly enjoy it, why _shouldn't_ they hook up when they feel like it?

Not that Dean's in love with Cas or anything dumb like that. Definitely not. They're still _just friends._ If Dean thought sex and love were the same thing, he'd have a list of the times he'd had his heart broken that could stretch to the moon and back. No, he's pretty sure he's too fucked up to fall in love any more, and anyways the world's going to end soon so why bother in the first place? And, okay, if you want to dig deeper (which he doesn't but his masochistic brain apparently does) him loving Sam and Sam loving him back was pretty much what got them into this whole mess in the first place. Which is all beside the point since he _isn't fucking in love with Cas_. Although he may be in love with fucking Cas, because it is, frankly, mind-blowing.

"Cas," he says, rolling over to face him. They're both still naked, and this carpet is without a doubt one of the nastiest things he's ever seen—he's probably contracted about five weird and incurable diseases just from allowing it access to his skin—but he just wants to lie here and savour the awesomeness of what just happened. Also, getting up sounds like a lot of work. "We need to talk."

"Okay," says Cas, who is still staring up at the ceiling in a vaguely dazed manner.

"You ever heard the expression "fuck buddies"?" Dean asks.

"Uh…not that I can recall, no. Is it significant?"

"Yeah, kind of. What about "friends with benefits"?"

"Oh, I know that one." Cas hauls himself upright to look at Dean. "I kept seeing previews for it on TV a while ago, but they've stopped now. Sam said it looked like just another dumb romantic comedy, and then he started talking about how movies like that perpetuate harmful gender and sexuality stereotypes that we as a society need to work past together if the world is going to progress beyond its current stagnation at misogyny rape culture."

"I bet he did," says Dean, who can picture his crazy activist brother saying exactly that and a whole lot more. He always figured Sam wanted to become a lawyer because it was something boring, something normal people did, something where you wore a suit to your work at the office instead of getting an anti-possession sigil tattooed on your chest while you hunted down demons with a machete; but maybe Sam chose lawyer for another reason. Maybe he actually did want to change the world. Which, to be fair, he has certainly accomplished, albeit via a slightly different route and probably in some ways for the worse. "But I'm not talking about the movie. I'm talking about the…expression, or whatever. Friends. With. Benefits. Know what it means?"

"Not really," Cas admits. "Isn't friendship in itself a benefit?"

Dean heaves a sigh and resists the urge to bang his head against the wall (or the floor, since that's closer and he's still feeling kind of lazy). "Different kind of benefits, Cas. Like, usually when friends hang out they go to a movie or go out for food or play video games or whatever, instead of screwing each other's brains out. That's not really normal friendship behaviour."

"Oh," says Cas, sounding genuinely surprised to hear this. "Really?"

"Yeah"—except Cas's surprise makes him suddenly suspicious, so he has to add "—wait, hang on a sec, you haven't been messing around with Sam too, have you?" It's hard to mask the horror in his tone—not that he cares who Cas sleeps with, or who Sam sleeps with, but it is definitely _really fucking weird_ if he and Sam are hooking up with the same person on a regular basis, _especially_ if that someone is Cas.

"No, I like Sam but I don't feel any sexual attraction to him. Also, Sam says he has determined himself to be heterosexual."

"Okay, cool." Dean is simultaneously relieved and weirded out to think about Sam "experimenting" in his college years. Besides, for all Dean knows it could be complete and utter bullshit; he's been claiming one-hundred-percent heterosexuality to Sam for years. "So anyways, back to us. Basically how it works is like this: we can have sex, do whatever we want with each other _when_ever we want. Whenever both of us want, I mean, and, uh… I guess whatever both of us want as well. No one-sided stuff. But at the same time, we stay _just friends._ You got it?"

"I…think so," says Cas uncertainly.

"So, like, no romantic attachment, no _relationship_. You don't have to hold my hand or cuddle or anything dumb like that. And you're free to fuck whoever you want, outside of me, and vice versa. Pretty much we're still just friends. Who sometimes have sex."

Cas nods, and this time he actually seems to understand. Which is good, because Dean might feel kind of guilty if he thought he were laying down rules that worked for _him_ without Cas really getting what was going on. But hey, the guy's not stupid. In fact, despite evidence to the contrary he could in fact be considered extremely smart, since he's picked up in the space of a couple months what Sam and Dean have had twenty-plus years to work out. There are still a few gaps, sure, but all in all he's doing pretty well, Dean would say.

Except Dean seriously considers revoking that statement when the next thing Cas says is, "What about Sam?"

"Sam," says Dean, trying to suppress a shudder at the thought, "is _not_ invited."

To his surprise Cas rolls his eyes—_actually rolls his eyes_, since when has he known how to do that?—and tells him, "I am aware of _that_. I meant, are we going to tell Sam about this arrangement?"

Oh. Right. Sam. Who lives with them. _All_ the time. And, along with always seeming to know when Dean's hiding something from him, is also always resolutely determined to find out what it is. Sam, who Dean somehow never really got around to telling he plays for both teams. Hmm.

"Well, I guess he'll find out eventually." It seems easiest, at the moment, to file this away under _stuff to be dealt with later_. "But listen, when he does—you tell him this is what you want, got it? He can't argue with it if it's your choice."

"What if I decide it's not what I want?"

This throws Dean for a moment, but the question seems to be purely of a theoretical nature. So Dean says, "Then you come and tell me, and we'll stop. Sound good?"

"Yes."

"Cool. Then we got a deal. Now help me get rid of these fucking condoms before he gets back from the dentist."


	7. Chapter 7

It does not take Sam very long to figure out.

To be fair, however, it is in fact a _gradual_ process. Two days after their rigorous foray into the uncharted (uncharted for Cas, anyways) world of oral sex—minus rimming because even Dean has his limits and that is one of them—Dean and Sam are sitting outside their motel room while Cas takes a shower inside, just enjoying what is actually quite a nice evening.

Dean takes in another mouthful of beer, which as it turns out is not a great idea because Sam chooses that moment to ask, "Do you think Cas is gay?"

In the moment of shock this question creates, a trickle of beer that is clearly of the opinion that Dean's esophagus is way too mainstream leaps at the opportunity to explore his trachea instead. While Sam is thumping him on the back, helpfully attempting to dislodge his lungs so Dean can cough them up properly, he adds with a tinge of disapproval, "Honestly, Dean, I know you're still not that comfortable with the whole idea of guys being gay, but—"

"Wait, what?" Dean manages to gasp.

Either Sam decides to ignore the interruption or he genuinely doesn't hear him, which is equally possible since Dean's fantastic dying whale impression is pretty damn loud. He goes on—"like, it doesn't even effect you, so why does it matter, anyways?"

"I… don't care… if people are… gay," he chokes out.

"Okay, well… good. I'm just saying. Anyways, Cas. It's not a big deal, I was just kind of wondering."

"He might be gay," Dean says cautiously, thinking that the only way Cas could possibly be _more_ gay is if he'd started singing show-tunes while his mouth was still full of Dean's cock the other day. Which would not only be really, _really_ gay but also extremely impressive. Unfortunately, or since Dean actually hates show-tunes fortunately, he's pretty sure the only songs Cas knows are from the classic rock albums he's been subjected to hearing over and over again as a passenger of the Impala, so his gay-ness level will probably have to rest with sucking dick and taking it up the ass.

The conversation continues for another awkward five minutes, although the awkwardness seems to go right over Sam's head, until Sam gets a phone call from Bobby with news of a prospective case. Dean breathes a sigh of relief.

Then the next day, at a rest stop on the highway as they're headed to Bobby's new case, Sam comes back from his supply run with a bottle of water for himself, a coffee for Cas who has recently discovered the joys of caffeine addiction, and a can of Purple Crush for Dean. "They were out of Coke," says Sam apologetically in response to Dean's murderous glare. "It was either this or some weird coconut-pineapple thing."

Dean pops the tab and takes a mistrustful sip. A little sickly sweet but at least it's cold, and the fizz helps block out some of the taste.

"Cough syrup?" asks Cas from the back seat.

Grinning at Cas in the rearview mirror Dean confirms, "Cough syrup—but as cough syrup goes, actually not too bad." And because he is possibly the most idiotic person on the planet he adds without thinking, "Better than those condoms, anyways."

"_What?_" says Sam. His expression would be comical if Dean weren't trying to locate his stomach, which seems to have disappeared as soon as he realized what he said. "Did you just say what I think you just said?"

Dean, in a remarkable demonstration of his lightning fast thinking and sharp tongue, says, "Uh…"

"What do you mean, _those condoms?_ And how the hell would you know what a condom tastes like anyways, huh? Is there something you want to share with the class?"

"Look, it's not—" It's not what? Not an indication that Dean's been sucking guys off since he was sixteen? Not proof that the last guy on whom he performed said act is currently sitting behind them? Because it totally is. Shit. Say something, say something, just make something up… "Uh. Cas was asking about flavoured condoms the other day, and _from what I've heard_ the grape ones are really gross."

Cas meets Dean's eyes in the rearview mirror, and _thank fucking God_ he's getting a little bit better at this whole nonverbal communication thing because he nods his agreement vigorously. The fact that he doesn't try to say anything is also a blessing, because over the course of their acquaintance Cas has proven to be an absolutely horrendous liar when it comes to the small stuff. Big things, where your life or your friend's life or the whole world is at stake, anyone can lie about those; but it's small stuff like this, where there's always the temptation to start grinning or crack up,_ that's_ where being a good liar really counts.

"Uh huh," says Sam, still sounding skeptical. "So you just—_watch that car!_"

At which point Dean skids to a halt, nearly crumpling his baby's hood against the back of the silver car that has suddenly slammed on its brakes in front of them. Dean honks angrily and the driver gets out, and his black eyes and the black eyes of passengers in the cars he hasn't been paying much attention to behind him indicate they probably aren't going to get any choice in the matter of picking their next job. By the time they make it to the nearest town, bruised and bleeding and exhausted though thankfully all still more or less in one piece, the earlier matter seems to have been forgotten entirely.

Sam tries to drag Dean out to the Laundromat with him that evening, and for once his only reasoning seems to be that they both hate doing laundry so if he has to suffer through it he's damn well going to make sure Dean has to suffer through it too. Dean wouldn't have minded too much, either, except that a) it's been, like, three days, so the novelty has yet to wear off this whole arrangement he's got going with Cas and b) he just found the pack of Pop Rocks he bought the other day but never ended up eating in his pocket. So he feigns a headache, and since Cas is in the shower (_again_—he seems to take that old saying about cleanliness being next to godliness very, very seriously) Sam storms out on his own.

"Hey, Cas," says Dean when his friend exits the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. He tries to sound casual, like the clean glow of his skin and the suggestively positioned shadows created by his hipbones and, oh yeah, the fact that he's pretty much naked aren't all huge turn-ons for him. "You ever tried Pop Rocks?"

He does that Cas-thing where his head tilts to one side as he considers the question. "No, I don't believe so."

"You want to?"

"Um, sure."

Dean rips the package open and Cas holds his hand out expectantly, but Dean just shakes his head. "I was thinking you could try them somewhere other than your mouth to start off, actually."

"I don't understand what you're—"

"Drop the towel, Cas."

His neck straightens out again, the look of confusion replaced by a grin as he does as Dean says.

It's nice, this time, to be able to take it a little slower; now that there's an agreement about this—now that Dean doesn't have to lie and bargain and trick himself into doing this—he doesn't have to plow through, or even dive straight in, because there's not fear of coming to his senses halfway through. Although, really, considering the way the rest of his life has gone he probably ought to have stopped worrying about coming to his senses years ago.

It's nice to be able to stroke lines down from Cas's hips to his groin with thumbs callused from years of hunting, nice to run his hands over the curve of his ass, nice to get him good and hard and wet and to press his lips against the base of Cas's cock before he even _thinks_ about giving in to Cas's demands to just _suck me already_, please _Dean_; because whatever Dean may think about love and however tough he may act outside the bedroom, for him sex and intimacy are basically inextricably linked. Stupid, right? A week later he won't even remember the names of half the girls he's slept with, and a week after that he may not remember having slept with them at all. So it's just pure, physical intimacy, and even he knows in theory that physical intimacy means nothing without emotional intimacy, which is precisely what he does his best to avoid. It makes no fucking sense whatsoever—but hey, there you go. Story of Dean Winchester's life.

Even when he gives in, it's not _really_ giving in, not the way Cas is asking for, anyways. He's still teasing—letting the underside of the angel's cock rest again his tongue without closing his mouth, licking the pre-come from his slit, moving further back to tongue gently at his balls.

Cas moans, staggering back to brace himself against the nearest wall, and tries unsuccessfully to get angry by growling, "Would you just—ah, _ah. _Fuck. I _hate_ you—"

"No you don't," says Dean, nipping at his hips in a way that dissolves whatever Cas might have been about to say next into a wordless jumble of sounds. He can't help noticing that it's the first time he's ever heard the angel curse, nor can he help noticing how hot it sounds. Hot like he-could-probably-get-off-to-a-recording-of-Cas's-gravelly-voice-just-swearing-over-and-over-again hot. Though this is undoubtedly far, far better.

Okay. Enough.

He rips the candy package open and pours its contents onto his outstretched tongue (making sure Cas can see, since he's been doing this sort of thing long enough to know the importance of a good show), and tosses the empty pack carelessly aside. The candy fizzes on his tongue, a little bit sour and a little bit sweet, and _finally_ he wraps his mouth around Castiel's cock. He can feel it popping against Cas's skin, too, and there are a lot of tastes getting mixed up in his mouth in a weird sweet-salty-sour-bitter-musky-Cas combination (good weird, he thinks, not bad weird). It's the first time he's done this without a condom—Dean figures since the world's probably going to be gone soon anyways safe sex can go fuck itself—so it's new for Cas, feeling Dean's momentarily fizzy mouth against his bare skin, but it's also a little bit new for Dean. First time he's tried the Pop Rocks thing himself, to be honest, though the idea's been kicking around for ages; and fuck does it work well, because Cas comes in, like, half the time it took Dean to get him off three days ago or whenever it was they were messing around with all those flavours. Dean barely has to do anything, just takes it until his eyes are starting to water as Cas fucks his mouth—which is good because it means he can reach into his boxers to jerk himself off at the same time. Cas seems to have unwittingly discovered the fact that having his hair tugged gets him crazy hot (one of the few times he longs for Sam's hair, actually, so that there'd be more to pull), and maybe he's always been a bit of a slut for sucking dick anyways, so there is no _way_ he's going to wait until Cas is done, no matter how relatively quick that is.

Cas's fist slams against the wall—when Dean looks up he can see the muscles in his exposed neck standing out taught against the skin—and then he's coming, shooting down the back of Dean's throat in thick, hot spurts, and Dean's swallowing even though he doesn't have to and even though it tastes kind of strange mixed with the blue raspberry (the fuck is with that name, anyways, there's no such thing as a fucking blue raspberry). Cas sags against the wall and just fucking _watches_ Dean finish jerking himself off, hungrily almost—they'd have another go for sure if they weren't both worrying about when Sam will be back. Still, it's nice to know Cas is into Dean for more than just the things Dean can do for him.

By the time Sam moodily stomps back in with the laundry (supposedly clean, but Dean suspects it'll smell like resentment for days), Dean and Cas are both safely in bed. Different beds, since it's Sam's turn to share with Cas again. Dean is faking sleep to go along with the whole headache story, though it only requires a minimal amount of concentration since he's almost there anyhow, and judging by the sound of Cas's breathing he's legitimately fully asleep. It means Sam doesn't have anyone to take his annoyance out on, so after a fair amount of grumbling Dean hears the springs of the other bed creak as his brother climbs in next to Cas.

The first thing Dean notices when he wakes up is his knees, in particular the fact that they feel like they're on fire. He swings his legs out of bed to examine them, and—shit. Oh, shit. Major rug-burn. Apparently blowing Cas in just his underwear was not as good an idea as it seemed at the time.

"The hell happened to your knees?" asks Sam, who is already sitting up in bed sporting a spectacular case of bed-head.

Dean tries to say something only to find his throat twinge painfully in protest—trying to deep-throat Cas, also not a great idea. Wonderful.

Sam is still waiting for an answer Dean doesn't have, so he croaks, "Uh…"

Cas, also by this time awake, catches the soreness in his friend's voice and looks horrified. Clearly he's feeling guilty—which is fine by Dean if it means Cas will be making it up to him sometime soon.

"Dude, are you sick or something? You sound—" Something in the bed crinkles loudly as Sam moves, and after a bemused moment of digging around in the sheets he produces the crumpled packet of Pop Rocks. Dean and Cas desperately avoid making eye contact with each other. "Hey, who was eating candy in my bed?"

"Uh," says Cas. "Me?"

"Yeah," Dean agrees quickly. "Him. While you were out." They both nod vigorously to support the legitimacy of the statement.

"Then how come _his_ tongue's blue?" Sam demands, jerking his head towards Dean, who despite his best efforts with a toothbrush didn't manage to get rid of all the artificial colour that had stained his mouth the evening before.

Dean develops a sudden fascination with a just-discovered hole in his bedspread. Cas says uncertainly, "Well… um…"

Sam looks from Cas to Dean to Dean's knees to the empty package still in his hand back to Cas back to Dean, and Dean can practically smell the smoke as the firing of his synapses goes into overdrive. And then…

"Oh my God," says Sam.

"You didn't…" says Sam.

"Oh my God," Sam repeats.

"No way," says Sam.

"Cas," he says, "did you hook up with my brother?"

"Um…" says Cas, glancing pleadingly at Dean for assistance.

Dean sighs, because even if they'd had the slightest chance in hell of worming their way out of this Cas just shot it right in the foot with his atrocious lying abilities, which are apparently so abominable he doesn't even have to be actually in the process of lying for them to kick in. Basically, there's no going back now, so he might as well attempt to plow forward. "Yeah, okay? Yeah, we fucked. It's not a big deal."

"Besides, it wasn't even the first time," Cas adds helpfully, as if this somehow makes things better.

"_It wasn't the_—like, how many times are we talking here?"

"Four," says Cas promptly. It's at this point that Dean pretty much gives up all hope of salvaging any part of the confrontation; Cas is at his oblivious best at the moment, just dragging an unwilling Dean in his wake.

Sam's giving him a "is this really true?" look, as if he's expecting Dean to shout "_surprise!"_ and announce this whole thing is just a setup for some reality TV show. Dean shrugs noncommittally, except that it actually _is_ pretty committal because if any of this were untrue he'd be shouting himself hoarse trying to deny it. What exactly is he supposed to say in his defense, anyways? Explain how the first two times were just supposed to be assisted masturbation? Tell Sam how Cas gives really good head? Especially for someone who's only been doing it for, like, a week—either Dean's a good teacher or Cas is some sort of sexual prodigy, and—

Anyways.

"Okay," says Sam. "Okay. If that's what… well, it's fine."

But he still doesn't look too happy, and Dean can't figure out why. Sam is a) used to Dean having sex and b) totally cool with the idea that Cas might be gay, so what the hell is his problem?


	8. Chapter 8

Technically Dean's never done the whole friends-with-benefits things before, mostly because he's never stuck around long enough to get to the friendship part of the deal. But this… well, it just seems weird how it can go from him, Cas, and Sam eating lunch like normal to him and Cas fucking each other's brains out to him cracking up over how seriously Cas takes everything on _SNL._ He supposes that's what the whole thing _means_ in the first place, that the watching TV together is just the friendship substitute for cuddling or whatever; but still, considering the only person he's really used to watching TV with is Sam, it'll take some getting used to.

Plus, the eating-lunch-like-normal thing? Yeah, not so much. Eating lunch, they've got that covered; it's the _normal_ part they're having issues with, largely due to Sam. For whatever reason this thing's got his panties in a twist, although only—and this is the part that doesn't really compute—with Dean. With Cas he's fine, _better _than fine in fact, now that he knows all his hard-put effort in sexually liberating Cas is finally paying off. But as soon as Dean opens his mouth, or even _looks_ like he _might_ open his mouth, Sam hits him with this wounded-puppy-dog-stare, like Dean's the one who betrayed _him_ for Ruby and how could he _do_ that and it doesn't even matter that he started the Apocalypse but Sam _trusted_ him—

Take, for example, when they're coming up with a plan of attack for taking out a demon hideout in Salt Lake City:

"We could sneak in through the cellar, take them by surprise—only problem with that is there's only one entrance, so if something goes wrong they could pick us off easy," Dean says, tapping the plan of the building they've found at a nearby library. "I say we split up, each take an entrance on the main level. Maybe we can still catch them off guard, and that way we'll have an easy escape route."

"I agree. That seems the most logical means of proceeding," says Cas.

Sam looks at Dean as if he's just suggested slaughtering a litter of orphaned kittens and then eating their brains raw.

Or, later:

"Has anyone seen my jacket?" Dean asks.

"Backseat of the car," says Cas.

Sam stares at Dean over the screen of his laptop, apparently under the impression his older brother is inquiring if either of them know any ten-year-old girls who might be up for a booty call.

And also:

"I'm hungry," Cas announces.

"Me too," says Dean.

Which is suddenly the eighth cardinal sin, according to Sam's expression, and has automatically landed Dean another eternity of unimaginable torture in Hell.

So finally, when they're eating dinner in some greasy diner and Dean's mere _contemplation_ of asking Sam to pass him the salt earns a wounded stare from his brother, Dean decides he's had enough.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Sam," he snaps, ignoring how the offended Cas bristles beside him. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sam says loftily. He takes another dignified bite of his salad. Now he's not looking at Dean at all.

"Quit messing with me—you've been all weird since…" He gestures vaguely at the space between himself and Cas, ending with a lame, "…you know."

There's a tense moment where no one speaks—Sam glowers at Dean, Dean glowers stubbornly back, and Cas glances uneasily between the two of them. Then Sam bursts out, "How come you never told me?"

"Never…sorry, what? What did I never tell you?" Dean's anger fades momentarily in face of his confusion, because he and Cas definitely filled Sam in on what was going on between them pretty quickly after it started (although admittedly with some reluctance).

"That you were, you know, bisexual!" Sam is doing the full-frontal Small Wounded Animal Look™ now (which is extremely impressive if you take into account his actual physical size), and it's annoying but at least now Dean knows what's the matter even if he hasn't quite figured out why yet. "I mean it's not even that you just didn't mention it, you've flat-out _lied_ to me, for—what, how many years? How long have you known?"

Dean thinks of kissing Daniel Turner behind the bleachers when he was fourteen. Getting a little bit drunk and making out with Luc Matthias a year later. Justis Bannerman's hot-tub. The freedom of being able to pick up a guy at a bar and take him back to his empty motel room once John had started letting Dean hunt on his own. Every time he and Sam have split up since after Stanford when he'll sometimes wake up three mornings in a row with a different nameless guy in his bed, just because he can.

"A while," he admits. "Since I was a teenager, I guess."

"And you _never_ thought to tell me? Why not? Don't you _trust_—"

"Sam—"

"—me? Did you think I would—"

"Sam, would you—"

"—_judge_ you for it or something? Because—"

"Can you just shut up for, like, two seconds?"

Beside him Cas has his shoulders hunched in uneasily, clearly wishing he still had enough of his grace left to zap himself the hell out of there. Dean feels fervently the same way—confrontation has never been a favourite for him, and Sam is acting like he's Dean's girlfriend who Dean's been cheating on the entire time or something. The argument is loud enough that their booth is beginning to draw curious glances from some of the diner's nearby patrons.

Luckily Sam complies and, fuming, sits back with his arms crossed to wait for an explanation with a parental air of this-better-be-good-young-man despite his being four years younger than the "young man" in question.

Dean sighs, rubbing a hand across his forehead. He can feel a headache coming on. "Listen, I didn't say anything because I didn't want dad to know, okay? I didn't think he'd be cool with it. So, whatever, right? I just went after girls instead."

"But—"

"Would you let me finish? Jesus." Another glare from Cas, which he elects to ignore. "When I showed up at your place and dragged you back into this whole thing I meant to, I swear I meant to, but dad was missing and then there was Jess and… there just wasn't a good time. And by the time things had quieted down a little it just felt too late, you know? It just felt stupid to tell you after not telling you for so long."

"You still could have told me. When you first realized, you could have told me," says Sam, and he's quieted down a little but it's almost worse, hearing the hurt in his voice. "I wouldn't have cared. Hell, I would have started trying to make myself like guys too, just to be like you. At least you wouldn't have been _alone—_"

"Yeah? And what good what that have done, seeing as you took off as soon as you got a chance?"

He doesn't shout, doesn't even put any anger into it, because the anger disappeared years ago to be replaced by something noiseless but worse, and Sam doesn't need to hear anger for it to hit him. His brother opens his mouth, then closes it again. "I'm sorry," he says finally. "I didn't—"

"Forget it." Dean eyes his half-eaten burger, weighing the pros and cons of taking another bite. He's always thought it a very great waste to leave even a fraction of such a magnificent work of culinary genius uneaten, but his temple is legitimately throbbing right now and somehow he's just not feeling hungry anymore. He picks up a French fry half-heartedly; this particular food establishment has successfully managed to get rid of both flavour and crispiness, so that the thing practically wilts in his head. Like Mr. Potato Head with erectile dysfunction. Which obviously makes the fries just that much more appetizing.

"Dean…"

"I really don't want to talk about this anymore, okay? Let's just call it even."

Sam sighs pointedly, clearly unhappy with where they've left the conversation and bursting with the need to psychoanalyze every single aspect of Dean's personality so that they can Work Past This Together; but before he has a chance to protest Cas clears his throat awkwardly, at which point both Winchesters suddenly remember he's been right there through the whole thing. He looks absolutely miserable, like a little kid who's just had to sit through his parents arguing again even though he just thinks they should be one big happy family like they used to. Not, of course, that Dean's family was ever your traditional one big happy, before Mary's death or after. Well—happy, sometimes, maybe, but _definitely_ not traditional.

"Can we go?" asks Cas, and Dean can tell how much he's hated this because he hasn't finished his burger either.

Dean stares at his own plate a moment longer before shoving it away unfinished, feeling an unreasonable surge of resentment towards Sam for making him lose his appetite. "Yeah, let's go," he agrees gruffly.

Back in their room—because now that Dean and Cas are, well, not together but are _doing_ stuff together that Sam probably doesn't really want to see they've finally gotten around to getting two rooms like they ought to have done ages ago—Dean makes straight for the bathroom to down a couple of painkillers for his head. All he wants to do is get drunk and sleep (only the unfortunate lack of alcohol in their room makes the former impractical and the latter a lot harder), but _obviously_ that's not going to work out because when does anything ever work out for him?

Cas is sitting on one of the beds, anxious but determined. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, staring at the wall behind Dean's head as if reading lines off a script that's been printed there.

"Uh…_no_," says Dean. Fantastic. Really, this is just what he needs: Cas growing a vagina as well as Sam. And he's so glad he didn't say that out loud, because Sam would probably have burst through the door to start lecturing him about misogyny and equal opportunities and everything. Plus he's… well, kind of attached to Cas's dick by now.

Cas frowns. "Sam tells me communication is key in any healthy and functional relationship."

Oh, so that's what this is about. While Sam's been nursing hurt feelings over the Dean half of their… whatever they've got going, he's also been reading too deep into the Cas half. Jesus. Dean's willing to bet he's started planning their wedding already.

"Well, maybe—but this isn't that kind of relationship, remember?" he points out.

"Okay," says Cas, looking extremely relieved.

And yes, there's a point to their having their own room, and no, that point is not just so that they can watch TV without Sam insisting on one of his lame historical docu-dramas or whatever; but tonight that's what they end up doing. Just lying on Dean's bed (not too close together. Of course) since the room doesn't have a couch, flicking through the channels until Cas becomes intrigued by one of those fucking procedural cop shows. Dean dozes off just as they're about to uncover the victim's deep, dark secret, thinking about how Cas still owes him big-time for his scraped-up knees but perfectly willing to wait until later to collect.


	9. Chapter 9

They're up at the crack of five a.m. the next morning to cram as much driving into the day as possible—Bobby's pointed out some suspicious potential Horseman activity halfway across the country. Dean's barely awake, nursing a cup of coffee churlishly and glaring at everyone in the café around him who dares to appear remotely cheerful at this ungodly hour. And speaking of ungodly—you'd think an angel would have no problem getting up at any hour of the day the Lord so _graciously_ created, but no. After Dean finally managed to drag Cas out of bed and bully him into getting dressed, Cas just growled a murderous instruction for Dean to _go away_ in response to the offer of breakfast and curled up in the back of the Impala to go back to sleep. One thing Dean's learned about him over the course of having kind of moved in together, besides the fact that he's almost as much of a slut for sucking cock as Dean is and also that he's alarmingly flexible, is that whatever other qualities he may have being a morning person is unarguably _not_ one of them. Sam, after years of bunking up with his brother, never seems to believe Dean when he claims Cas is even worse than he is himself, but it's true.

Speaking of which—a disgustingly bright-eyed Sam joins him at his table, carefully setting down whatever stupid girly drink with twice as much sugar as there is coffee he ordered alongside a plate of breakfast salad (_seriously_—what the fucking _hell_). Then he reaches into his pocket, unfolds the piece of paper he finds there, and smacks it down triumphantly in front of Dean, who shoots him a surly glare for having the audacity to be not only fully awake but also apparently under the impression that everyone else is, too. Sam just sits back smugly in his seat, nodding towards the paper to indicate Dean should examine it more closely.

He reads the title, which is not particularly helpful in distinguishing what exact use this incredibly significant (judging by Sam's expression, anyways, which seems to indicate its importance is akin to that of the Declaration of Independence) piece of paper is going to be in his life.

So it's a list. Okay. Maybe Sam's found out how to stop the Apocalypse in its tracks in six easy steps.

Dean reads the first item on the list.

Then he rereads it, just to make sure his eyes aren't playing tricks on him.

Then he reads the next item. And the one after that. And a few further down, just to be sure.

"What the _fuck_, Sam?"

"It's called a yes/no/maybe list," says Sam proudly, as if he's come up with this Nobel Prize-winning concept himself and plans on using it to end world hunger. "It's for sex."

Dean glances down at the list again, where _anal play_ precedes _anal rimming_ as the first two items. Five a.m. is _way_ too early for him to be dealing with this. "Yeah, I kind of got that, thanks."

"Originally they were used mainly in the BDSM community"—for a moment Dean has the bizarre mental image of a bunch of kinky bondage-slash-fetish people living together in some sort of African village—"but now they're becoming a lot more common among mainstream couples. It's an easy way to kick-start communication"—Sam's new favourite word, apparently—"especially since most people might be too embarrassed to bring it up on their own."

"Okay, but—"

Sam ignores him and plows enthusiastically onwards, by now in full-blown teacher mode. "And good communication heightens sexual pleasure for both partners, because it eliminates uncertainty and anxiety while at the same time allowing the exploration of areas you may not have felt comfortable discussing before."

He can't believe this. He cannot fucking _believe_ this. He can't believe he is sitting in a café at five fucking o'clock in the morning looking at a bluntly written list of kinky sex acts while his brother, his _younger brother_ who he can still remember coming to him in an extreme level of embarrassment to ask how you went about kissing a girl, tries to talk to him in graphic detail about his sex life with their mutual best friend while eating a fucking breakfast salad.

"Anyways, so how it works is that you fill out one, and Cas fills out one, and then you compare. Whatever's in the _no_'s gets discarded, the _yes_'s get added to the list, and everything else you guys talk over," Sam explains, apparently mistaking Dean's stunned silence for genuine interest.

"You do realize," Dean says weakly, "that Cas and I aren't actually, like… together, right?"

"Yeahhh…" Sam draws out the word doubtfully and gives his brother his best I-know-you're-only-saying-that-because-your-emotional-instability-won't-allow-you-to-realize-how-much-you-actually-love-Cas-and-you-need-to-accept-that-love-is-a-strength-not-a-weakness look. Then he perks up again, adding, "But that just makes it even more important, since you and Cas supposedly won't be sharing the same psychological intimacy that you'd get in a romantic relationship."

Dean broods silently over the "supposedly" he knows Sam threw in there on purpose, but ultimately decides not to say anything about it; he's still far too tired to go up against Sam's insurmountable energy with any hope of success. So he finishes his coffee, shoves the list in his pocket as he vows to get rid of it at the first possible opportunity, and drags Sam and the remnants of his breakfast salad (_breakfast salad_) back out to the Impala.

By the time they stop to stretch their legs (and, in Sam's case, to find a washroom) Cas is more or less fully awake. "Are you alright?" he asks, coming to stand beside Dean at the edge of the field where he's pulled the car over.

This is not because of their profound bound, or because having sex has accidentally-on-purpose brought them closer together in some spiritual way. This is because Dean has been driving for several hours straight, and is grimacing as he rolls his shoulders back in an attempt to loosen the knot that has formed in the muscles between them as a result. "Back hurts," he grunts, shrugging his shoulders in a way that is supposed to help but actually just succeeds in producing a particularly painful twinge.

"Here, let me—" And before he can protest Cas is bracing his elbow against Dean's back and _pressing_ and _ow_, what the _hell_—oh, okay. Huh. Impressive.

"I thought your grace went all _Marie Celeste_ on us," says Dean. He stretches experimentally and yeah, it's really all loosened up now. "How'd you do that?"

Cas smiles. "I didn't need my grace for that. I rebuilt your body, Dean—I know every muscle, every nerve ending, every anomaly. All of it. Everything that makes you _you_ is there because I put it there."

"Oh," says Dean, for want of anything better to say. "Okay." The moment feels oddly out of place, like it belongs in the middle of a heated argument or a poignant farewell or a passionate declaration of love—not in the middle of an ordinary conversation, out here in the middle of a field in who-the-hell-knows-where, Wyoming while they're waiting for Sam and his sissy bladder. It feels like it ought to end with a punch or a kiss or _something_, not just with Cas's calm smile and Dean sounding like an idiot (though, to be fair, the latter at least is an almost inevitable outcome for any situation involving Dean opening his mouth). It feels—fuck it, it feels like Cas being _Cas_ again, saying something that's supposed to be romantic in a non-romantic way and Dean can't even deny it or anything because it's fucking _true._ And he'd nearly rather have the physical discomfort of the knot in his shoulder back than deal with _this_.

Except, of course, just as cluelessly as he made things awkward in the first place Cas swings the conversation back to a manageable level for Dean's emotionally impaired brain to deal with by asking, "Did Sam give you a list?"

"A—what, sorry? Like a grocery list?"

"No…" Cas digs something out of the back pocket of his jeans to show Dean and oh, right, _that_ list. Sam certainly hasn't wasted any time.

Dean rolls his eyes and complains, "Ugh, _Sam_. Maybe if we get him laid he'll stop fussing over our non-existent problems and start focusing on his own."

Cas gives Dean a Look (there seems to be a lot of those flying around lately), and only belatedly does Dean realize that maybe Cas actually thinks it's kind of a good idea. "You don't actually _want_ to do it, do you?" he asks incredulously.

"Do you?"

"Uh." He has to admit his main basis for ruling it out is that it was Sam's idea. "I don't know."

"Well, I don't know either."

In his head he can hear Sam's voice excitedly shouting about how this is the _perfect_ example of the lack of _communication_ that blocks most couples from enjoying a one-hundred-percent _fulfilling_ and _pleasurable_ sex life, and _just think_ what you guys could do if you could just _move past this_ and _talk_ about what you want in a _safe, embarrassment-free_ environment, and—

Fuck it.

"Fuck it," says Dean. "Let's just do the damn thing. But I would just like to cross off"—he takes another look at the list—"cunnilingus, pegging, strap-ons, tribadism, and vaginal fisting"—_who the fuck came up with this list_—"right now, okay?"

"Um, okay," Cas agrees, looking marginally startled. "Um. Any particular reason, or…?"

"Well neither of us has a fucking vagina, for starters," he says sardonically. "Unless you're using your angel mojo to hide something from me."

"Oh. No. That seems logical."

Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes again.

And so, even though it goes against the most base elements of his personality in terms of the whole open-and-healthy-relationship thing (_not_ that it's _that_ kind of relationship, but friendship is a type of relationship, right?), that evening once they've settled into the latest in a never-ending chain of sketchy motels he finds himself sitting outside his room with Cas trying to decide whether to put "enemas" under _no_ or _Jesus-fucking-Christ-on-a-cockwagon-not-in-a-million-years-no_.

There is, however, one slight unexpected flaw in what seems to be an otherwise moderately sound idea that they discover when comparing lists, and it is this: Cas has an extraordinarily, optimistically-almost-to-the-point-of-naivety open mind. So open, in fact, that by rights his ears ought to be several galaxies apart just to accommodate the full broadness of what resides between them. He puts every single thing on the list down in the _maybe_ column.

Of course this may be due in part to a rather limited knowledge of some of the terms, requiring him to make an educated guess based on the name—and while that may work in other areas of life, when it comes to sex educated guesses seem to be very rarely accurate (_golden showers?_ Sounds charming! _Paddling?_ Well, he's never been canoeing but he's willing to give it a try). Either way what the whole thing basically boils down to is the pair of them looking over Dean's _yes_'s and _maybe_'s, which seems to rather miss the point of the whole thing in the first place. Although… okay, Dean has to admit to himself that maybe some of the things here he never would have brought up without prompting; so if nothing else at least it's nice to know Cas is game for more or less anything.

And, another plus, it's got him feeling rather… _experimental_ tonight. Judging by Cas's thoughtful expression, curiosity seems to have bitten him as well.

Which would be fantastic, and probably lead to a few hours of _extremely_ enjoyable entertainment, if Sam weren't currently passed out on Dean's bed.

It's the whole Horseman thing—as soon as they got into the city they started poking around, and as soon as they managed (with what, in retrospect, was probably a suspicious lack of difficulty) to track down the guy they thought might be Famine, holed up in some swanky hotel downtown, Sam conked out. Some sort of spell got all three of them, actually, but as Sam had been in front when they opened the door he got the full blast of it. Cas woke up out in the hallway after about two minutes, Dean perhaps another three minutes after that, and between the two of them they managed to haul Sam's gigantic unconscious body back out to the car. His own room is technically available, but unfortunately neither knows what Sam's done with the key; so he's sleeping it off in their room, and Dean refuses point-blank to get it on in the same room as his brother even if it is a magically unconscious version of his brother. That's just… weird.

To look on the bright side, though, at least they've pretty much been able to rule out Famine as a possibility. Unless what everyone's craving is spontaneous uninterrupted sleep—which is a possibility, Dean supposes, except that it's definitely _not_ what he's craving right now. War's already taken care of, and Pestilence and Death don't seem too likely either.

So in summary: no Sam, no sex, no idea what's going on, and Dean can't even force himself to do any research because the computer's locked in Sam's room and all the libraries are closed by now.

It's going to be a long night.

To kill some time they go out for coffee—to goddamned _Starbucks_, of all places, because it's near the local university and therefore open late. Dean can't help cringing as he steps through the door, certain he can feel a little bit of the soul Cas so thoughtfully pulled out of Hell shrivel up and die. Ugh. The fact that it is both considerably nicer _and_ cleaner than most of the places they eat in is countered significantly with the promise of "organic, fair-trade coffee beans" used to amp up the price of all the drinks and the number of Mac books scattered around the various tables belonging to all the irritating hipsters. All Dean really wants is a beer or two, but considering a good half of the suspicious activity that brought them here in the first place occurred at various bars around the city, coffee seems a safer bet until they know exactly what they're dealing with.

After Dean's accidentally ordered two of what is apparently the largest size of coffee possible (it's not his fault—out of the three fancy-ass foreign-sounding sizes they offer, venti is the only one that _doesn't_ sound like it ought to be big), they slide into a booth to sit in silence and ponder existentialism (Cas) or sulk over Starbucks' insistence on using confusing names for everything (Dean).

Dean has just taken a sip of his ridiculously huge coffee and is wondering who the hell's bladder is actually equipped to deal with a serving this big when Cas says, "I've been thinking."

"Good for you, Cas." He's experiencing some inner conflict over the fact that as much as he loathes Starbucks on principal, their coffee is actually pretty damn good.

Cas gives him the angelic version of Sam's bitch-face and continues, "Based on the information Bobby gave us, whatever is causing problems here is extremely powerful—which would fit with our initial idea, namely that we were up against another of the Apocalyptic Horsemen."

"Right… but it's not a Horseman. Unless someone wrote Sleeping Beauty into the book of Revelation."

"I don't understand that reference, but I'm assuming it was meant as a joke. Anyways. Ruling out Horsemen and angels, we're left with gods and demigods."

"Gods?" Really? As if life wasn't insane enough with all this Biblical shit going down—now they've got to deal with cocky, unstable bastards from ancient Egypt or whatever coming over here to fuck stuff up as well? No, that's just what they need. More power-crazed psychos to take care of. Great.

"It makes sense, if you think about it. With all the agents of Heaven and Hell busy squabbling amongst themselves"—not exactly how Dean would describe the _fucking Apocalypse_, but okay—"other non-Biblical deities must be finding it much easier to start causing chaos here," Cas explains.

And speaking of chaos—something brushes against Dean's inner thigh, making him jump enough to slosh a few drops of bitter brown liquid onto the table. Cas's hand. He glances at Cas, because there's no way the guy's doing what Dean thinks he's doing—they're discussing work, they're in _public_ for Christ's sake—but Cas just stares right back, eyes betraying nothing aside from a certain seriousness about the conversation.

"So, um." The hand snakes higher up to hover tantalizing over Dean's crotch, pressing just the slightest pressure into him and oh, okay, maybe Cas _is_ going to go there. Dean forces himself not to let anything show, just takes another sip of coffee as calmly as he can—because there's nothing like another mouthful of good old caffeine-based stimulant to calm things right down. "Who do you think it is, then?"

"I don't know for certain," says Cas. His fingers trace oh-so-lightly around the outline of Dean's cock under his jeans, and it shouldn't be hot, it should be weird, right? Cas is talking about _mythology_, which may give some hardcore scholars huge geek boners but has never done anything for Dean except maybe put him to sleep (or in real life almost kill him), and they're surrounded by irritatingly academic twenty-year-olds in a fucking coffee shop—not exactly what Dean would pick as the opening premise for a good porno. But it is, it fucking _is_ hot, maybe because it doesn't even matter what the hell Cas says in that deep, rough, constantly fucked-out-sounding voice of his or maybe because he's been wanting to slam Cas up against a wall and fuck him all evening or maybe because they could get caught _so easily_ and, hell, it kind of thrills him. "But my initial response would be to say one of the Oneiroi is at work here."

Another swallow of coffee, just to wet his suddenly parched throat. "The what?"

"From ancient Greece, although there are of course Roman equivalents as well." Dean tries not to squirm in his seat—God, this fucking _teasing_, Cas is still barely touching him. "Exact definitions vary; Hesiod claimed they were the sons of Nyx, or Night, and the brothers of Hypnos, the god of sleep, created through parthenogenesis." He almost wants to just shove Cas away and do it himself, and he's never jerked off in public before but he'd do it now, _fuck, _he'd do it, and Cas would _know_ what he was doing, and—but that's not part of the game, and that's what this is all about, isn't it? Games. "Cicero more or less sticks to the same conventions, although he claims both Hypnos and the Oneiroi were fathered by Erebus—Darkness—rather than Nyx." Maybe it's the caffeine starting to kick in already, winding him up, because he's only half hard so it ought not to be this fucking unbearable, having Cas's hand just ghost along the outside of his jeans; but it's already sending those urgent, almost painful spikes of _need _shooting through him. Needing to have Cas just grab him, unzip his pants and give him something to grind against, _hard_. "Euripides, however, describes them as being fathered by the Earth-mother Gaia and represents them more as daemons or spirits than as actual gods." His eyes are practically watering by now, cock straining against his jeans, and even though he's listening with rapt attention to the rasp of Cas's voice Dean has hardly taken in a word of what he's saying. He presses his hips futilely down into the faux-leather seat, knowing he's hardly in the right position to get any friction from it but so absolutely desperate for something, _anything_ that he can't seem to help himself. "Then again there was the Latin poet Ovid, who claimed they were not Hypnos' brothers but simply the most prominent of his thousand sons."

"Okay, so… these Onei-whatever have something to do with sleep?" Dean asks, making a tremendous effort to stay on topic regardless of what's going on beneath the table; his voice, unfortunately, sounds embarrassingly breathy.

"Yes. Dreams, specifically." A little more pressure, _thank fucking God_, almost a squeeze—though still not enough. The bastard's got his fingers around the head, gently twisting through the denim but backing right off again as soon as Dean tries to subtly grind up into his hand. The fingers of the other hand are still laced innocently around his coffee cup as if that's all this is, two guys talking late-night classical mythology over coffee. "Ovid names three of them: Morpheus, who is their leader and is usually described as the god of dreams…" Dean's gritting his teeth in an effort to keep his silence, but he's pretty sure Cas can read the pleading in his eyes as easily as the pages of one of his beloved Harry Potter books. By now the front of his underwear is soaked with pre-come; he can feel his cock slide easily against the fabric with every tantalizing twist. Too easily, come _on_ Cas—"Icelos or Phobetor, the god of nightmares"—Cas's palm rests flat against him, all the way to the base, and he can't help his hips bucking up just a little; not that it helps any because Cas's hand just moves with him, and before he can stop himself a whimper of frustration escapes his lips—"and Phantasos, the god of fantasies."

Fantasies. He's got those, alright. Fantasies about grabbing Cas right here and now and bending him over this table, just getting rough and leaving bruises and _fucking_ him right here in front of everyone. Fucking him so hard and raw he won't be able to sit down for _weeks_ without remembering. For once intimacy can go fuck itself because what Cas is doing to him right now ought to be a criminal offense; for once he just wants to _take_.

His teeth are grinding together so hard he can feel his jaw creaking painfully. If Cas doesn't goddamned do something soon, he's going to—

"I suspect," says Cas, still in that infuriatingly unperturbed tone, "based on the nature of the attacks, particularly the one we experienced firsthand this afternoon, that one or more of these lesser deities are… acting up."

The plastic-y leather stings his palms as they smack against it and a strangled groan squeezes its way out of his throat, because without any warning Cas's hand is grinding viciously down against his aching cock. It's all he can do not to just lose it, not to thrust forward wildly, because whatever images he may have come up with in his head this is real life and in real life you just don't _do_ stuff like this—not here, not now, what if someone sees—shit, _yes_, just there, just like that, _Cas_, harder, please, _more_—

Beads of sweat are breaking out on his forehead from the sheer effort of holding himself together. "So… what do you think…" Deep breath, deep breath, don't gasp, "we should do?"

Cas shrugs and, Jesus, and _takes another fucking sip of his coffee_. His other hand, the one under the table, is kneading Dean's balls now, practically making his eyes roll back in his head at how fucking _amazing_ it feels after all those tantalizing half-touches, like every single nerve ending is on fire in the best possible way, like every single _cell_ in his body is about to orgasm. He's trying to regulate his breathing, because no one gets out of breath from sitting around talking about whatever-the-hell-they're-talking-about. He can't even remember any more. Can't remember anything. Where they are or why they're here or anything other than the hand fucking him under the table, not even touching his bare skin but just rubbing through the denim and his heart's still pounding so furiously it feels like he's just sprinted an entire marathon.

"My knowledge only extends to the old stories, I'm afraid," says Cas. "And in the old stories, there tended not to be much focus on killing beings that were thought to be utterly immortal."

"I guess we'll have to do some research tomorrow, then," says Dean. Or that's what he tries to say, anyways; that's what the tiny bit of his brain that's still vaguely functional tells him to say, but somehow it seems to come out more like, "Nnngh!"

Cas's fingernails scratch against the fabric as he tightens his grip, tugging harder and faster and pressing in all the right places, fuck that's good, _fuck_, Cas—Dean's lust-hazed eyes meet Cas's across the table, and for the first time he notices how dark they are because Cas is fucking getting off on this, on the control and the danger and the _oh fuck, Cas_—

Dean's body goes rigid in what is probably a very bad impression of someone not having a total white-out orgasm in the middle of a half-empty Starbucks a little before midnight. He's panting, fists clenching, throat constricting as he tries to not make any sound at all, and in front of him Cas and everything in his view of the building is going in and out of hazy focus as he rides through peak after peak of almost unbearable pleasure.

And then it's done, he's done, the lights seem a little fuzzier—hell, everything seems a little fuzzier—all the tension is gone from his body, as if his bones have been replaced with Jell-o and he sags against the back of the seat. The girl a few tables over, with frizzy blonde hair and red-framed glasses, seems to be staring at them; which is not unreasonable because, oh yeah, _Cas just jerked him off in the middle of a coffee shop. _Fuck. His pants are soaked, he can feel his cheeks starting to burn scarlet—but oh, man, that was _hot._

"Research," he says vaguely to Cas, realizing that they are still technically having a conversation.

"That," Cas replies, "sounds like an excellent idea."

Like hell it does, thinks Dean.


	10. Chapter 10

Gods, as it turns out, are a lot easier to get rid of than one might think.

Sam is wide awake and extremely indignant by the time they make it back to their room, and what with his irritation-fueled energy, the fact that he's managed to locate his room key, and the vast amount caffeine Dean and Cas have just consumed at such a late hour, they end up pulling an all-nighter just to get this damned Greek son-of-a-bitch figured out. Cas is right: there's plenty of information, but anything remotely useful on how to kill them is conspicuous only by its absence. Then Sam, in a remarkable stroke of brilliance, suggests, "The only thing this guy, whichever one he is, can do in real life is put us to sleep, right? So if most of his power comes from being able to control our dreams, why don't we just let him bring the fight to us?"

Cas frowns and says he doesn't understand, but Dean's getting a sinking feeling that tells him he probably knows _exactly_ what Sam is talking about. Shit. Last time they tried this was two years ago, before Hell and Cas and Sam's thing with Ruby and Jo and Ellen and the Apocalypse, and his mind was already insanely fucked-up then. If they pick his head as the battle ground, they're going to be too busy wading through all his convoluted, never-ending problems to find one dumb god.

"Aren't we missing some key ingredients?" he points out.

Sam shakes his head, looking annoyingly pleased with himself. "I've still got some leftover. I saved it, after last time. Just in case."

"Okay, but…" A struggle to come up with another legitimate flaw in the plan fails, and all he can say is, "Just… not my head, okay? Not me."

"What? What's wrong with your head?" Sam protests, clearly alarmed at the alternative. "It was fine last time."

Yeah, fine—except for the part where Dean met the other version of himself and started screaming things he'd never dare say to anyone else. He knows what his dreams are, what it's like in there now. The last thing he needs is someone else poking around, stirring up everything he's finally managed to bury.

"Dude, I don't want some random god poking around in there—anything could happen. What if…" Struck by a sudden flash of inspiration, Dean argues, "What if he makes me say yes to Michael?"

"Who's the other vessel, idiot?"

Oh. Right. Well, one of them has to do it—

"I still don't understand what is under debate," says Cas.

Dean and Sam exchange looks, and he's known Sam long enough to be able to tell when his brother's thinking _exactly_ the same thing he is. _Perfect._

"Cas," Sam begins, "you ever heard of something called African dream root?"

The plan, such as it is, is really quite simple: Cas gets whichever one of the Oneiroi is in town to take him down. Dean and Sam hang back, and from the relative safety of their motel room cram their dream-selves into his head, where the three of them meet up. Shit goes down (this part is admittedly a little hazy, but they figure they'll work it out once they get to it) and they either kill or otherwise disable the god. Then they get the hell out of there and hope everyone who's been put under and is still alive wakes up. Fail-proof, right? What could possibly go wrong?

Whatever. They're doing it anyways.

Dean will admit he's a little apprehensive about sending Cas off on his own like this, but he's doing his best not to let it show because he _knows_ Sam will insist on reading into too deep. Like, what? He's not allowed to worry about someone without being in love with them? Lame. So he just slaps Cas on the back and tells him gruffly to be careful before they send him off—not that it seems to help, because Sam still looks at him in an I-see-what-you're-trying-to-hide kind of way. If Dean's hiding anything right now, it's just the urge to strangle his little brother. Honestly.

The stuff is no easier to choke down than the last time they used it, and also just like their past experiences there's no immediate sign that it's actually had any effect; they're still in the motel room, staring awkwardly at each other as they wait for something to happen. Then the ceiling starts to cave upwards in a spiral like someone's pulling a string attached to the middle, and the furniture starts to droop in odd, melting shapes, and Dean suggests that either the Apocalypse has given up on waiting for the Winchesters to cooperate and just gone ahead with kick-starting the party or they are currently inside Cas's dream.

"Let's go with the second option," says Sam, and he opens the door.

Huh.

Interesting.

The grungy motel corridor is gone, replaced with a cavernous hallway lined with dozens of doors. In Bobby's head, of course, places didn't always match up properly; but there was always something random, something unfinished about the half-remembered scenes his sleeping brain paired together. This… Dean's never seen a place like this, outside of maybe the genie's cave in _Aladdin_, and it seems far more real, permanent, _something_, than anything he's every dreamed up himself. Cas is nowhere to be seen, and judging by the size of this single hallway it could take them hours to find him.

Just because he's curious, he tugs open the door across the hall from the one through which they came: a room full of people drinking and laughing, and all dressed like they're part of some Renaissance fair. It looks like one of those old-fashioned taverns, but seen through some sort of muted, fuzzy camera lens that makes all the colours a little bit duller and all the shapes a little less distinct. Dean glances at Sam, who's peering into the room over his shoulder, and Sam shrugs. It's a dream, after all, and who ever heard of a dream that actually made sense? No use wasting time trying to work out something that can't really be worked out at all when they've got a god to smite.

He can't resist checking just one more door, though, because the hall is insanely long and repetitive and he's the kind of guy who can't resist a good old mysterious closed door—except this one he has to slam shut again almost immediately, throwing his entire weight against the wooden frame to force it closed against the furious sandstorm that comes howling out. "The hell kind of dream is this?" he asks indignantly.

One more door, just one—who can blame him after that weirdness? This time it's an airfield with a vintage airplane (the design is vintage, anyways; the airplane itself looks nearly brand new), and there's a woman strapping on a pair of old aviation goggles. Like the first door, and possibly the second if he'd had the time to notice, everything here is kind of… bland. Even the sound of the plane's motor sounds distorted.

Sam stares at the woman. "Don't tell me you're seriously checking out one of Cas's dream chicks," Dean says, because come on. That's just _weird_.

"No, I just… she looks like…" Sam trails off, shaking his head and still watching her intently. "Nah. Never mind."

So that door's closed, and where the hell is Cas? As glad as he is that they're not digging around in _his_ skull, Dean can't help feeling a little uncomfortable wandering around his friend's mind unchecked. Even if it is just really weird random _stuff_ and not deep dark secrets, it's still supposed to be private.

And he's decided not to poke around any more, just to find Cas and deal with the god and get out of here, but then of course Sam has to go and open another door himself. Dean keeps walking, expecting Sam to catch up, then halts after a moment when he realizes he's on his own—Sam's still stood halfway in the doorway, watching something Dean can't see with a look of surprise.

"Dean, come and see this," he calls.

Dean comes, and he's just about to remind Sam pointedly that dreams don't count for anything in real life and anyways don't they have a _job to do_; but then he sees what Sam's seeing, and the words die on his tongue. It's them, it's Dean and Sam and Cas all slightly brighter and clearer than the last three scenes, and _what the hell_, Dean remembers this. It's the first time Sam met Cas, when he went all flustered fan-girl about the fact that he was actually meeting _angels_, real live _angels,_ oh-my-god-I-mean-um-sorry-I-guess-I-can't-say-that-in-front-of-angels-but-look-Dean-_angels _angels. He recognizes the room, remembers the dialogue, and there's even Uriel standing ominously behind Cas. The scene carries on uninterrupted by the real Dean and Sam's presence, running like a film but more _real_.

"Why the hell's he dreaming about _this_?" Dean demands. Because, really? This old, random, boring event was the best Cas would come up with? That's just sad.

"I don't think it's a dream," Sam says slowly. "In fact, I don't think we're in a dream at all. I think these are all… memories."

Dean stares at Sam, then back into the room, then down the endless hall. His eyebrows shoot up reflexively—memories? All of these are memories? That's not… it's… sure, Dean's got thirty years of memories stockpiled by now but most of them aren't this _detailed_. Half of them he's probably made up, or messed around with so much they're as good as fake anyways, and way more than that he's forgotten. And the first ones he and Sam saw looked _old._ Like, decades or centuries old.

No way. No fucking way. This has to be just some weird dream.

He opens another door a way further down the hall, just to check, and this time it's like being hit by a wall of sensation. Colour so vivid he can practically taste it—how the hell does that even _work?_—and the audio is like listening to the most epic, high-tech surround-sound stereo system in the entire world at a decibel level that's just a little too loud, and he can, _what the fuck_, he can _feel_ what's going on inside. Ghosts not only of physical sensation but also the emotions or whatever, except just like everything else they seem to be multiplied by a hundred times compared to anything Dean's ever felt before (not stronger, exactly, just… _louder_, like someone turned the volume up on every sense the human body has to offer), and holy shit, someone's enjoying himself.

It's another memory, definitely; from back when Dean was all dizzy and sick from their encounter with the kraken but still offered not-so-charitably to give Cas a hand with jerking off. And this is so, so crazy, because he can see the scene unfolding before him and his body remembers what it felt like when it was happening but now he can _also_ feel what Cas felt, can feel his own weight on Cas's lap and his own hand around Cas's cock and _whoa._

He slams the door shut before Sam can see anything, heart pounding and senses on overload; not that it matters, because once he's gotten his bearings back (the corridor seems darker than before, like he's just come inside on a sunny day) he finds Sam is already several feet ahead of him.

"…seem clearer than others?" Sam's saying.

"Uh," says Dean. His brain still seems to be moving rather slowly as it recovers. "I, uh. Well, maybe some of them are just newer than others. Fresher."

"I guess so. Hey, look—"

They've reached the end of the hall. Shockingly. Dean was starting to think it just went on forever, stretch after stretch of painfully accurate memories from, what? Forever? Seems like it. Anyways, there's a wide arch at the end here, nothing fancy but it certainly makes a nice change from all those identical wooden doors. The lighting makes it hard to tell exactly what's on the other side, but Dean hopes fervently that it includes Cas; there's something just plain _wrong_ about wandering around another guy's head without him around, even if they probably haven't seen anything Cas wouldn't want them to see. Well—the last scene, maybe. But Sam wasn't paying attention and Dean was there in the first place, so there doesn't really seem to be a problem with that.

"I wonder if he can even—" Sam begins, taking a step through the arch—and this is when things start to fall apart.

Sam gives a strangled cry and sinks rapidly to his knees, eyes squeezed shut and hands clamped tightly over his ears as if to block out a sound only he can hear. He's tilting crazily, barely able to stay upright even on his knees; by the time Dean gets to him a second later he's already leaning on his elbows, and maybe Dean's taken care of his share of scrapes and bruises and twisted ankles when Sam was a kid but seeing him like this now, hunched over and curled up and not even able to defend himself if he had to, it terrifies Dean more than any monster they could possibly face.

"Sam? Sam!" He shakes his brother's shoulder desperately, conscious in the back of his mind that his eyes are stinging and there's an uncomfortably high-pitched noise permeating the cavern through the archway that's starting a sharp, precise pain in the back of his skull. It's not what he would call pleasant, that's for sure; nor, however, does he find it completely debilitating. Just a nuisance to be dealt with—so what the hell is wrong with Sam? "_Hey_! Sammy! Talk to me, okay? What's going on?"

"Dean?"

He knows that voice, thank God, and when he tears his panicked eyes away from Sam writhing on the floor he sees Cas in the middle of the room. Which is actually a fair distance away, since the cavernous chamber is _huge_—but he's got a clear view, because it's also almost completely empty. Circular, with more of the arches like the one they just came through leading off to other, presumably equally infinite hallways, and he'd be utterly dumbfounded at what this implies about Cas's memory if it weren't for the all-important, all-consuming fact that _there is something seriously wrong with Sam right now._

"Cas, fuck, you gotta help me, something's wrong—"

Cas is at his side in an instant, and Dean can't help noticing there's something a little off about him, too. Like… he's wearing the form Dean knows so well, he's Jimmy Novak with the trench-coat and the rumpled suit and the blue eyes and the messy hair, but he's also sort of—sort of _flickering._ To something strange and inhuman, something that Dean's eyes won't register properly because whatever kind of creature it is doesn't seem to fit properly into this universe.

"We can't help him, Dean," says Cas, a distinct note of sorrow in his tone. Why sorrow? _Why?_ Sam's not going to die. He's not. He'll be fine. Sam can't die.

"We have to—"

"Dean. Listen. My mind was not built to hold a human consciousness. It's hurting him to be here, just as it's hurting you."

"Not like this it's not!" exclaims Dean, who is beyond frantic at this point and barely taking in Cas's words. "I'm fine! Why aren't _I_ on the ground?"

"Your body was rebuilt with my grace. It offers you some protection here, though even that will not last forever. Please listen to what I'm—"

"He was fine in the hall!" Dean says desperately. "He was fine! We can just move him back—"

"Dean—"

"_Help me_—"

"I AM TRYING."

He doesn't remember moving but when the terrible roar fades he's on his knees beside Sam, ears ringing painfully. Above him Cas's shape seems to settle again; the outline of a pair of shadowy black wings fades behind it until it's just Cas, just his friend, not the terrifying unknown creature who blew out all those windows in the gas station when Dean crawled out of the ground a year and a half ago. Cas's vaguely apologetic expression twists into one of hurt when he offers Dean a hand to help him to his feet and Dean instinctively flinches away.

His hand drops to his side. "I'm trying," he repeats. "But you have to listen."

Dean clambers upright on his own, wincing; it feels like that voice full-out body slammed him. _Ow._ But Cas is right, he's freaking out and that's not going to help any of them—"Okay. Okay. I'm listening. Tell me what to do."

"We need to get him out of here—both of you, really"—and Cas is right again, because once the pain's faded from that shout the ache in his head returns persistently, a stabbing pressure growing in his head like some sort of tumour—"as soon as possible, and the only way we can do that is if I wake up. And to wake up—"

"We gotta find this god dude."

"Exactly. Well." Cas hesitates. "Finding isn't so much the problem. He's over there; I just don't know what to do about it."

Sure enough, when Dean looks where Cas is pointing, there's a fourth figure in the room, crouched over like Sam on the floor. He's worse than Cas, rippling between something humanoid and something smoky and shadowy and something with horns and probably a half-dozen other things in between so that he's never all one shape, and Dean has to look away after only a second or two because it's making him feel nauseous.

"It's the same issue—even with only an echo of my grace left my mind is incompatible with this being. He can't control my dreams, nor can he kill me, nor can he abandon me. He's just… trapped."

Well, great, but how the hell should Dean know what to do? This was the part of the plan they left to figure out when they got to it, which was fine at the time except that now Sam's down and Dean's freaking out and also kind of feeling like there's an aneurism building somewhere in his brain and this whole turn of events seems to have taken Cas by surprise so _what the fuck do they do?_

"Can't you just use the voice on him?" Dean asks helplessly. "Tell him to piss off?"

Cas looks doubtful, but neither of them has a better idea so they walk back over to the god-thing and Cas says, "I'll let you go if you agree to waken your victims and leave this place."

"Please," the god moans, in a slithery, raspy tone that makes Dean's skin crawl. Dean can't help wondering what it thinks of Castiel—does it know he's only an angel, and an almost-human one at that (not that you'd be able to tell from everything that's going on in here. Jesus. In terms of brains, the guy's is like some sort of nuclear reactor compared with Dean's own spark plug)? Do they even _have_ angels in whatever-the-hell religion it's from? To be honest if he'd had to place bets in a fight, his money definitely wouldn't have been on dead-battery-angel Cas going up against a freaking _god_. Maybe it would have turned out differently outside of Cas's head, with the playing ground level; but hey, they're here now and Cas has literally got this guy on his knees so what the hell.

"Give me your word," Cas instructs. "Swear on…" And here he falters, because swearing on the Bible or whatever doesn't seem like it would be very effective. To this guy the Bible's just another book; Cas might as well get him to swear on the dog-eared copy of _The Hobbit_ Sam's got him reading now.

"The river Styx," the god supplies hurriedly. "I swear on the river Styx to do as you say." There's a sort of _other_-y feeling, different from the electric crackle of angel magic, that tells Dean and Cas whatever he's sworn on is pretty legit. This guy must be really desperate.

"Very well," says Cas. He sneaks a glance at Dean, as if checking for Dean's approval—like _he's_ got a clue what to do, but he supposes it's nice that they're keeping up the whole teamwork thing. So Dean shrugs, and Cas looks more or less mollified, and then he turns back to the god (Dean realizes he still doesn't know which one of the Oneiroi is it, not that knowing would mean a lot to him anyways) with such a different expression than the tentative one he just gave Dean that it hardly looks like the same person. This one is ancient, commanding, _powerful_, closer to the way he was that first night in the warehouse, except that this time it's not directed at Dean—and hell, Dean would be lying through his teeth if he said it didn't turn him on just a little. Which is so totally fucked up, because Sam's in so much pain he can't even speak right now and they're supposed to be fighting this old god dude (though it's not much of a fight, as fights go), and all Dean can think about is how long it's been since he bottomed for anyone but fuck, he wants to give it another shot.

Then Cas thunders, "GET OUT." There's an odd shift to the room that makes Dean stagger slightly as he tries to regain his balance, and when he looks up it's just the three of them again. That's it. No more god. It's done.

"I'm going to wake up now," says Cas.

He does, and it's fine. Sam's fine, if a little disoriented from the memory of a pain his physical body didn't actually experience. The god is gone, and when Cas gets back to their motel room he reports that everyone else seems to have woken up as well. As hunts go for the Winchesters, this is an almost unparalled success; no permanent damage, no unwarranted deaths, and all with a minimum of effort on their part. Perfect. Basically.


	11. Chapter 11

Dean's had enough sex (and not just with Cas, although by now he thinks he may be reaching a record for both quantity _and_ quality with one partner, because _damn _Cas is one horny son-of-a-bitch) to know the basic rules: no bondage, unless they're cool with that, no unexpected rimming, and above all _no talking._ No serious talking, anyways, because a) you're not going to be able to think straight, so b) nothing you say in the bedroom (or wherever you happen to be) ever counts. Talking dirty, that's fine—that's _great_, if you're into it, and Dean's into nearly everything. But marriage proposals, divorce discussions, deciding whether or not to have children, brainstorming ideas to deal with the Apocalypse, etc.—no. You just don't _do _that.

You especially don't do it when you're just fucking for fun, because you like it, to let off some energy. You especially don't try to have serious discussions then, because _maybe_ if you're legitimately dating you can get away with it since sex is, like, an important extension of a loving connection between two people or whatever the fuck Sam would say about it, but not when there is no relationship and you're just friends. Like Dean and Cas. Who are just friends, whatever certain irritating younger brothers might think.

But fucking _hell_, Dean just can't stop thinking about this and it's getting in the way of everything, including sex. Which is just _not fair_—not fair to him because aside from food and Sam sex is basically the only thing that keeps him going, and not fair to Cas because when you're squirming on the bed with a vibrator up your ass (yeah, they're back to the vibe—Cas can't seem to get enough of it, and since complying means Dean gets a prime view he's more than willing to go along with it), you really don't want the guy working the vibe to be distracted.

All in all it's got him bad-tempered and moody, especially when the not-as-good-as-it-should-have-been high from getting sucked off enthusiastically—always with the goddamned enthusiasm, it's not fucking _helping_ him here—by Cas fades sooner than it should have. "You know," he says waspishly as he puts the freshly cleaned vibe back in its bag with all the other fun stuff, "you could do this yourself. You don't actually need me."

Cas, watching him lazily from the bed, tells him bluntly, "But I_ like_ doing it with you."

"Yeah, well," says Dean, and leaves it at that.

"Are you implying that you don't enjoy doing it to me?" Cas raises himself onto his elbows to see Dean's expression more clearly, because he still tends to grasp at straws when it comes to equivocal human communication and taking away even one all-important feature leaves him clueless. Dean doesn't even want to imagine what it would be like for someone attempting to conduct a long-distance relationship with his friend. "If that's the case, I'm perfectly willing to do something else."

There is really no logical argument Dean can make to counter this. One, he_ loves_ doing this to Cas, loves stretching him out and being in control and making Cas beg for more and just _watching_ him come apart; and two, they _do_ do other stuff. Lots of other stuff. Maybe they're not done Sam's stupid list yet, but slow and steady, right? And their sex life doesn't exactly lack variety. The only reason he wants to argue is that he wants to argue, which is a really dumb reason to have a fight.

So instead he asks, "Can you dream?"

It should throw Cas off, confuse him; there's no possible logical link between the question and what they were talking about a second before. A total non-sequitur. Dean would have been thrown off, he knows that much. But Cas just gives him a searching look, as if he's passed over any bemusement from the abrupt transition and gone right into wondering what's making Dean ask. "No," he says. "I have never dreamt."

"Never? Or just, like, maybe you have but you don't remember it?"

"Never," says Cas firmly, in a way that doesn't prompt further argument.

"Oh."

"Is there a problem?"

"No, I just…" Dean drags a hand through his hair, and if he weren't so distracted he might notice the way Cas's eyes follow it, fixating on the messy spikes the action creates. It doesn't help that he can't pinpoint exactly _what's_ the problem here, only that it wasn't there before the dreamroot and now it won't go away. Fuck it. They're friends, he's allowed to ask, _they're friends_ and he has a right to be worried or curious or whatever the hell is going on with him. "You know those doors? The ones in your head?"

Cas stares at him blankly.

"Doors? You know? The doors with stuff behind them?" Okay, it's a shitty description, but how can Cas _not_ know what he's talking about? It's his own fucking head, for God's sake. "C'mon, man. We were in your head, and there were all these doors, and Sam thought there were, like… memories behind them, or something."

Cas's expression clears, _finally_, and he says, "Oh, yes. I think I know what you mean—though that was only how your mortal mind processed your surroundings. I see it in a different manner. More complex. What of it?"

"So… they are memories, then? All of them?"

"Yes. Angels have an extensive cognitive database in which to store information. I'm assuming you took the liberty of investigating"—Dean nods warily, but Cas doesn't seem particularly upset—"in which case you would have most likely seen some dating back several centuries."

"Yeah, um… I don't know. Maybe. There were some old ones, anyways. But, uh. The newer ones, I saw a few of those too, and they were… well…"

"Extremely vivid?" Cas supplies wryly.

"Well… yeah. Pretty extreme. Is that… now that you're more human, is that actually how things are for you?"

"Yes."

"Everything?"

"Yes."

"Not just sex?"

"Not just sex," Cas confirms, "although that in particular is very… stimulating."

Christ. _Everything?_ Everything's like that to him, all the time? Dean only got a few seconds' worth, and that was more than enough to leave his head spinning. It was too bright, too loud, too _intense._ Overwhelming. And being human is like that for Cas _all the time?_

As if reading his mind Cas continues, "It's not all that bad, once you get used to it, just… different. As an angel my view was wider but more aloof; now it's all up close. Different."

"Huh," says Dean.

"And now my extensive cognitive database is reminding me that the show with space travel is on in approximately two minutes, and unless there's something else you want to say…"

There isn't, because Dean still doesn't really know what his problem is with the whole thing, so they end up watching _Star Trek_ again. And that ought to be the end of it, now that Sam's fully recovered and they're ready to move on to the next disaster; however Cas experiences the world he seems to be coping admirably, making it totally useless for Dean to… worry, or whatever the hell's going on with him. Except of course he's Dean Winchester and when has anything about him ever made the slightest sense, and now every time Cas eats dinner or comes in Dean's mouth while Dean's sucking him off or hurts himself on a case—especially when he hurts himself—Dean can't help thinking about it. And fuck, it's not even that he's actually _worrying_ about it half the time, the thought just keeps popping into his head: _whatever I would feel, this is ten times better or ten times worse or just ten times _more. It's driving him crazy.

Which is partly why he's here, doing what he's doing; he figures he just needs a little distraction to tide him over until the apparent power of the realization wears off. The other reason, of course, is that he hasn't done this in a _very_ long time, and now that he's mostly with a guy in bed there isn't really a ton of opportunity to explore this particular kink of his without any forethought. Plus, the thing about kinks is that even if they're pretty tame by kink standards they can still kind of weird people out—though it doesn't take an expert to clue into the fact that Cas seems to take everything Dean suggests (not that he's suggested a whole ton of weird shit, to be fair) with an attitude of extreme laissez-faire. When Dean makes the mistake of mentioning this to his brother, trying to point out the flaw in Sam's whole brilliant list scheme in that Cas marked everything down as an open-minded _maybe_, Sam starts to worry that Cas will get used to "all your weird messed-up shit", as he puts it, as a norm for sex that will carry over to any other relationships in which he might find himself. Dean points out indignantly that a) there is _nothing_ weird about what he does in bed (basically. Kind of) and also b) there aren't going to be _other relationships_ because this isn't a relationship to start with. He also privately thinks that c) there aren't going to be relationships for Cas, period, considering how he only ever hangs out with Dean and Sam and also remember how the world's probably going to end in a few months?

Anyways. Back to the fact that he's standing awkwardy in the middle of a women's lingerie store.

He would honestly take any number of monsters over this fucking intense (like, _Cas_ intense) feeling of awkwardness. It's almost as bad as the first time he jerked Cas off—not quite, because even though things have worked out in his favour based on that incident he can still recall the shrivelling mortification of the whole event, but this is pretty damn bad all the same. He figures _any_ guy in one of these stores is going to feel out of his element, even if he's with his girlfriend; even worse if it's a guy shopping _for_ his girlfriend; and holy fuck balls so help you God if you're shopping for _yourself_. Not that he's going to come right out and say that, obviously, especially not after he's woven an intricate web of deceit to convince Sam and Cas he's just going to get a desperately needed new pair of jeans and then driven to the absolute other end of town just to be sure. But still—this just isn't a good place for a guy to be even if he has a legitimate reason for being there, and somehow when you think of how to describe a moderately hardcore male panty fetish "legitimate" isn't usually the first word that springs to mind.

He's here anyways, though, because Cas put down _maybe_ for both cross-dressing and sensation play while Dean wrote a furiously blushing _yes_ for each. There's just something about women's underwear—the way it feels against his junk, the way it looks, maybe even just the fact that he can wear it under the rest of his clothes without anyone any the wiser but _knowing_ it's under there—and whatever exactly it is, it turns him on. _Hard._ He's gone commando before (out of necessity, not choice, and it's a long story, okay), but somehow it's just not the same. No slide of silk against denim, for one thing. God, it's getting him kind of hot under the collar just thinking about it. Plus part of him's secretly harbouring a hope that maybe Cas will be into it too, because picturing Cas in one of the tiny lace thongs on display in front of him is, well… nothing even needs to be said, does it, except that if he doesn't stop imagining it soon he's going to get a full-out boner right here in the middle of this store. He can't be certain, of course, but he's got a feeling that isn't going to help matters any.

"Can I help you, sir?"

He jumps guiltily. It's one of the sales clerks, a petite brunette he would usually be all over if it weren't for the fact that going to all the effort necessary to get someone to come home with him seems kind of a waste of time when there's a sexy part-angel already waiting in his motel room. Still, he does his best to flash her one of his most winning smiles and says, "Well, yeah, actually… it's my, uh, it's my girlfriend and I's anniversary in a few days, and…"

The uncomfortable laugh that escapes his lips is apparently all it takes to seal the deal, because however awful this whole thing is for him it's definitely not the first time a guy's had to do something like this before. The clerk's face melts into an understanding smile almost immediately. "Oh, well, congratulations, sir. Did you have anything particular in mind?"

"Uh…" He can feel his face flushing scarlet because yes, yes he definitely does have something particular in mind, and in fact would appreciate it if everyone could just clear out the store for a few minutes so he could pick out what _exactly_ he wants without feeling like everyone in the entire world is staring at him. "Not really, I guess. Just something… nice."

"Sure. Do you happen to know her size?"

Size? Ha. Nothing here's going to fit either him or Cas properly—that's kind of the point. Both of them would fall out of even the biggest size of the most full-coverage panties this place has to offer. So, okay, just go for the hips: something tight enough to stay up but not so small it'll be uncomfortable. "Medium?" he hazards, figuring most of the designs here are insubstantial enough to offer a fair amount of stretch. That's the beauty of lace. One of the beauties, anyways.

Fifteen excruciating minutes later he's walking out of the store, feeling breath he didn't realize he was holding whoosh out in a great sigh of relief. He played his part. Didn't get caught. Or if he did, if that clerk did somehow guess he wasn't just a guy awkwardly shopping for his girlfriend, she was nice enough not to say anything and it doesn't matter because he'll be gone in a few days to a new town where no one knows him besides his brother and his best friend and probably some demons too, since he tends to be so lucky.

Dean's so relieved, in fact, that he forgets one of a hunter's most important rules: cover your tracks. Cover your tracks, for instance, by actually buying the pair of jeans you said you were going to buy so that when your brother asks why the hell were you gone so long if you don't even have any pants you don't have to come up with a brilliant lie on the spot like, "They didn't have any."

"Really?" Sam asks, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. "The mall didn't have any jeans? Anywhere? In any of the numerous clothing stores that make a mall, you know… a mall?"

"That's right," says Dean stiffly. He's fully aware that out of every lie he has ever had to come up with, this is possibly the least believable out of all of them. Not scared to die? Okay. Don't remember Hell? Fine. No jeans at the mall? Bullshit.

"Maybe I should get Cas to check Revelation again… I don't remember it mentioning this, but it sounds like another harbringer of the Apocalypse."

Dean glowers at him silently.

"The fifth Horseman, maybe? Bad fashion sense?"

"They were all this fancy designer shit, okay? So shut up."

Sam rolls his eyes, but as suspicious things go it's not actually that suspicious—especially when you've got a small army of angry spirits haunting an old house newly up for sale nearby to deal with. So he goes back to the article about the house in question he's managed to pull up on his laptop with relatively little fuss, leaving Dean to skulk back to his own room where Cas is, out of one of the only strokes of luck ever to befall a Winchester, passed out on the couch.

Technically it ought not to matter; not wanting Sam to know is one thing, but the fact remains that if Dean has his way this is all going to end back in the bedroom with Cas anyhow. The thing is, though… well. He's not doing this _just _for Cas, he's doing it because _he_ wants to do it, and after everything he's been through he's going to goddamned do something for himself for once. Besides, he doesn't even know if Cas will be into it at all. Certainly he's unlikely to find it weird—Dean's not too worried about that. If Cas were going to find something weird, it probably would have been way back at the start when Dean offered casually to "help him out". _That_ was weird. No, he's wondering more along the lines of _will Cas get it?_ Because Cas sometimes still has trouble understanding human things, and this is just about as human as it gets: people invented underwear, people decided who got to wear what underwear, and people came up with cross-dressing, too. Maybe Cas hasn't been human-ish long enough, or will _never_ be the right amount of human-ish to have Dean in a pair of lacey panties do anything more for him than Dean in a regular pair of men's underwear would.

So he goes into the bathroom, making sure to lock the door behind him, and unbuttons his jeans. They slide down over his hipbones to pool around his ankles. He kicks them out of the way, and even though it's not necessary at all for him to grab the base of his shirt and tug it up over his head to join the pants in their corner he does it anyways—there's just something about what he's going to do that makes him want to be completely naked. He wants to look at his body, to see the contrast of bare flesh with lace and silk and how they hardly cover anything at all. Right now he's still in his usual boring grey underwear but his pulse is already starting to pick up in anticipation, and the cringe of shame he still feels at doing this adds a nice pink flush to his skin. Deep breaths. He turns on the tap to scoop some water down his suddenly dry throat. Ready? Okay.

His regular underwear is discarded so that he's standing naked in front of the mirror; it's kind of embarrassing, but he's half hard already just at the thought of what he's about to do. He reaches slowly into the bag and freezes, because the rustling of the tissue paper in which the clerk wrapped his "anniversary gift" suddenly seems as loud as fucking _gunfire_ or something—there's no way Cas can be sleeping through this, considering Sam can probably tell exactly what Dean's doing three rooms over.Hell, Bobby probably knows what Dean's doing three _states_ over.

Relax. This supposed to be fun, remember?

The first pair he pulls out happens to be pink. Mostly pink, at least. He didn't purposely pick them out—it's the feel, it's the look, the colour hardly matters—but it's kind of tricky to spend much time in a lingerie store without seeing something in pink. The front is silk, with soft black lace lining the edges and curving up around the sides into the tiny back. Slowly, carefully, because he feels like his stronger, bigger body might tear them, he slips one foot then the other through. Slides them gently up, feeling the elastic in the lace stretch to accommodate the muscles of his thighs and, finally, the breadth of his hips. He closes his eyes and for a moment just _feels_, feels the way the lace sits in between the cheeks of his ass and how his cock weighs down the delicate silk and how the band hugs the skin just below his hipbones. His lips part in a low moan—fucking _hell_ this feels good…

Dean opens his eyes and stares at himself in the mirror. He loves the contrast, the hard lines of his own body instead of the soft curves of the girls you see wearing things like this in the catalogues; he loves the obscene bulge, how tightly the fabric is drawn to accommodate him.

"Dean?"

He jumps guiltily, eyes immediately moving to the door handle in panic even though he's absolutely _certain_ he locked it. Shitshitshitshitshit—

"Gimme a minute," he calls back. How—he didn't even hear Sam enter the room, Christ—

"Okay, well, I think there's something you should take a look at," says Sam from the other side of the door.

Dean yanks his pants back on, biting his lip as he feels the denim slide first against skin that usually isn't bare and then against a very thin layer of silk. The shirt goes back on as well, and the old pair of underwear is shoved unceremoniously away behind the shower curtain with the rest of his clandestine purchases. One last check to make sure none of the lace is visible above the top of his pants and then he's opening the door, growling a surly, "What?" at his brother to mask the fallacious yet nonetheless insistent sensation of exposure.

Back in the main room, Sam's cradling his laptop in his arms (seriously, the guy shows an alarming amount of devotion to his computer sometimes—then again, Sam says the same thing about Dean and his car) and Cas is sitting up blearily, sporting even more spectacular sex hair than usual. Sam shows everyone excitedly what he's found—a series of articles that, together, link an earthquake, a cursed dreamcatcher, and a fucking crazy old dude with a sort of ghost-trap responsible for the insanely haunted house they're trying to deal with—and just as they've decided to leave it overnight a report comes through on the police frequency Sam's tracking of a disturbance at, conviently enough, the exact same house. Looks like they'll be going tonight after all, unless they particularly fancy scraping bits of the dumb teenagers who've just broken in off the walls tomorrow.

Which means that, yes, Dean is going off monster hunting in a thong. A lacy pink-and-black thong. One that isn't really great for running, or ducking, or kicking down doors. Not only is this perhaps not the best idea he's ever had, it's actually downright dangerous; because instead of putting a hundred percent of his concentration into killing ghosts and keeping himself alive there's always a little bit that's trying to make sure his pants stay up high enough to hide his new underwear. Maybe only five percent, but still. When you're hunting, five percent can mean the difference between life and death. And he really, _really_ does not want to die wearing a thong.

Though he has to admit there's still something a little exhilarating about it—something kind of sexy about getting all dirty and bruised like always yet having this one secret to himself. Exhilarating enough that when he and Cas get back to their room close to one o'clock that morning, sore and exhausted, Dean's not feeling particularly tired. His body is thrumming with an energy that's been growing slowly ever since that afternoon in the store, and it's enough that he can barely wait for the door to click shut behind them before he's slamming Cas up against the wall, crushing his mouth against his friend's in a hot, messy kiss.

Cas makes a noise of surprise that is muffled somewhat by Dean's mouth, but he hardly seems displeased by the development. His hands snake around Dean's back, shoving off his coat and slipping under the hunter's shirt to grasp the muscles of his shoulders, his sides, his pecs, _everything_ within his reach; and somewhere in between the hot mess of lips and tongues and teeth it occurs to Dean that this is actually the first time he's kissed Cas on the mouth. Not exactly the kind of thing that would have made it onto Sam's list but yeah, it's definitely something they haven't done before. Huh. Weird. Sex without kissing usually just seems… incomplete, to Dean, though he supposes there's been enough other stuff going on to make up for it. Anyways, he can ponder it later because right now he's got Cas pinned against the wall with his mouth all loose and just fucking _waiting_ for Dean's tongue to do something to it.

He swallows each of Cas's moans hungrily as his tongue licks stripes down the roof of the other man's mouth, then sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth until it's pink and swollen and slick, and he doesn't know exactly where this is going to end up going but right now he _really_ fucking likes the idea of seeing those lips around his cock. _This_ is what he's been missing, this feverish rush with no room for anything but _now._ He's not thinking about whether the bruise already blooming on Cas's cheek from their evening's work hurts as much as a broken bone would for Dean. He's not fretting about the end of the world. He's not even feeling the stomach-clenching anxiety of being a guy in women's underwear by choice—just the rush of blood downwards as Cas's thigh slips between his legs, pressing against the heady silk-lace-denim combination. Fuck. Grabbing at the guy's ass he presses him forward, closer, grinding his crotch down against Cas and only letting go when Cas tugs insistently at the bottom of his shirt, and as for Cas it is completely unacceptable for him to still be fully clothed, Dean is definitely going to have to do something about that—

—_nngh_, but only after Cas stops doing that thing he's doing with Dean's nipples, pinching and pressing and tugging and _fuck_, is it just him or does Cas literally get better every time he does this? He shifts their positions so that when he kneads his hands more firmly into Cas's ass it rubs his hard-on against Dean's, and Dean can feel his cock sliding against the satin in a way that makes his shoulders arch back in pleasure—Cas seems to be struck by the terrible dilemma of whether to buck forward into the glorious heat between Dean's legs or press back against the hands squeezing his ass, and Dean hasn't actually technically fucked Cas yet, they just haven't worked up to that, but if Cas is game then why the hell don't they do it tonight because he's turned on like crazy right now, like just touching won't be enough. Cas is already undoing Dean's pants, slipping a hand inside, and—

Cas falters for a moment, apparently confused. Then, with a low chuckle, he pushes the jeans a little lower on Dean's hips and asks breathlessly, "Dean, why are you wearing female undergarments?"

There's a sudden change in the direction of blood flow—away from his cock, which suddenly seems far less in need of attention than it did a second earlier, and up towards his furiously reddening face. His grip on Cas slackens instinctively, and even though Cas has certainly seen him naked before he's suddenly, desperately wishing to be fully dressed. Cas hasn't seemed to notice anything yet—his hands are sliding down the back of the now-open jeans over Dean's mostly bare ass, still grinding languidly against him—but then Dean pulls away, and he looks up in bewilderment. "What's wrong?" asks Cas, frowning slightly. It doesn't suit him, that expression when his eyes are still dark with lust. Then again, apparently _women's undergarments_ don't suit Dean, so it would seem they're evenly matched now.

"Nothing," he says gruffly. "I just—I'm tired. I don't really feel like doing this right now."

In fact, he's feeling kind of sick. Sick from the mortification that's snuck in to replace the urgent arousal of a moment earlier, twisting his stomach until he wants to throw up or scream or hit something or do _anything_ other than be in these stupid panties with Cas in this stupid room. Why the hell did he think this was a good idea? It's the farthest thing possible from a good idea, it's just fucking _weird_ is what it is—hell, even _Cas_ thinks it's weird. Clearly he's gotten a little too comfortable doing this with Cas; he's forgotten that there are some things that are just better to keep to yourself, and this is _so fucking definitely_ one of them.

Cas looks utterly lost, because the guy who was tearing his clothes off feverishly a second ago is now totally frigid and this is Cas so obviously he doesn't really get what he's done wrong. Which makes sense because he hasn't actually done anything wrong, except for be a normal human guy for once even though Dean was expecting something different from him and it was completely unfair and stupid and what the hell had he been _thinking?_ So yeah, it's not Cas's fault at all but right now Dean still kind of hates him a little for making him feel this burning shame, and once that dies down a little it'll just make Dean hate himself a lot for being such an asshole.

Cas tries to reclaim his mouth in a kiss, but Dean jerks his head away. "Dean—"

"I'm going to take a shower," he announces stiffly. "Don't wait up."

And he turns his back on Cas and heads to the bathroom, leaving his best friend standing alone with his shirt half off.


	12. Chapter 12

It takes Sam approximately 0.01 seconds the next morning to tell something's wrong.

He doesn't say anything at first, when the three of them meet up as usual to go get breakfast together, but Dean catches the way his eyes flick between them. They're not actually ignoring each other, which would be a hell of a lot easier; everything between them is just really…_stiff_, and not in the sexy way. Cas has progressed past last night's woeful confusion to wounded pride and Dean's successfully turned his lingering morification into gently simmering resentment. Really, it's just great to see how fantastic the pair is at handling their emotions—Dean feels like Sam must be on the verge of a breakdown after putting up with an entire meal of their failure at communicating their problems to each other.

It's fucking stupid, and Dean knows it. Cas probably doesn't know it, since as far as Dean's aware (not that he's asked, because obviously that would be too easy) he's still at a loss as to what the issue is here. Hell, Dean hardly knows what the issue is himself—so what, Cas laughed at him, Dean practically busted a lung after Cas's epic failure at scoring with Chastity that one time, _it's not such a big fucking deal._ They're friends, and friends laugh at each other. That's just how it works. Besides, Cas didn't even _mean_ it; he just seemed surprised, and not even unpleasantly so. Still more than willing to go on with what they were already in the middle of.

Sam, thankfully, waits to mention it until just before lunch when they stop at a gas station, tagging not-so-casually along when Dean goes inside to pay. "What's up with you two?" he asks as soon as they're out of hearing range of the Impala. "Is something wrong?"

"Mind your own, Sammy," Dean says half-heartedly. Talking about it is the last thing he wants to do, but somehow he doesn't really have the energy to put up much of a fight.

Sam ignores him anyways and goes on, "Is it the whole friends-with-benefits thing? Is that not working out? Because, you know, it actually never works out."

"What? No, it's—"

"And I think the fact that you and Cas have such a strong friendship—"

"Sam—"

"—combined with your obvious mutual attraction—"

"Would you just—"

"—is a pretty clear indication that you both have deeper feelings for each other than either of you have admitted, and I get that you don't like talking about your feelings, but—"

"Please stop talking—"

"—in this case you're really hurting Cas and you're hurting yourself as well, so I think you really just need to talk about this with him before—"

"Oh my _God_, will you please _shut up?_" Dean snaps, loud enough that the gas station's few other customers turn to stare at them curiously. He closes his eyes, praying for patience, and manages to lower his voice to a more acceptable level. "It's not that. At all. Just trust me on this, okay? And as much as I appreciate your concern, it's really none of your goddamned business so please, just drop it."

Sam looks mildly offended, but unfortunately is not sufficiently deterred to let go of the subject altogether. "Well, I think you're wrong," he says stubbornly, "but whatever your problem is, you guys still need to talk about it."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," says Dean, and he leaves an indignant Sam to pay on his own.

Though of course Sam is right. Cas seems to think so, anyways, because when Sam's fallen asleep in the back and Cas has moved up to shotgun (they're attempting to pull another all-nighter on the road—there is a distinct possibility that Lucifer's plans for the Apocalypse involve the Winchesters single-handedly melting the ice caps by making them drive back and forth across the country over and over again) Cas says testily, "I still don't understand why you're upset with me, Dean."

Dean grits his teeth until he can feel his jaw creaking unpleasantly. Can't they just _leave_ it? Because it's not even that he doesn't want to talk about it, although that's definitely true as well; it's that he _can't_ talk about it. He doesn't know what to say. Everyone gets embarrassed some times, right? So what the hell makes this so different?

"If you didn't want me to see your underwear you should have indicated so when I started removing your pants."

Yeah, well, that's the whole fucking problem, isn't it? He _did_ want Cas to see it. He wanted Cas to be as turned on by it as he was. The problem with a lot of sex stuff is, though, that if you take away the sex it's actually pretty silly. "It's not—look, can we just—" His gaze stays focused determinedly on the road as he takes a deep breath, trying to keep a lid on his temper. "Maybe we should just… take a break."

Cas scowls, clearly not impressed in the slightest with the suggestion. "I don't want to take a break, and judging by your initial eagerness last night neither do you."

"I'm allowed to change my mind, okay?" And he has, somehow he has changed his mind—or maybe had it changed for him—but at any rate Cas is the absolute last person he wants to be in bed with right now.

"Yes, but—"

"Cas, there's not going to be a shortage of people willing to fuck you. Just because we're not doing it together doesn't mean you can't with other guys, or girls, or whatever you're into." Though it feels weird to him, saying that, picturing that; he wouldn't say he's feeling jealous, because even though neither of them has slept with anyone else recently they were never technically exclusive, but the idea of Cas actually going out on his own and getting it on with a stranger just seems… not really like Cas. When it comes to humans Cas doesn't appear to feel the need to go out and make friends on his own.

"But I don't want to do it with other people," says Cas, which doesn't really do anything to dispel Dean's ideas about his extreme introversion. "I like doing it with you."

"Try it with Sam, then," Dean retorts, fervently wishing the whole damn conversation to be over. "He's just like me, only bigger. Opa!"

Cas says flatly, "No, he's not. Sam's not like you at all."

And for some reason Dean doesn't really know what to say to this, so he just adjusts his grip on the steering wheel and they drive on in silence. Save for the radio, of course, because Dean can't stand a silent car regardless of who's arguing with whom inside; though unfortunately it's reached the point in the evening where all the stations are either playing retro eighties pop trash or mellow jazz. Not really his style, but he doesn't want to wake Sam by blasting one of his old cassette tapes—and at least the jazz is low-key enough to be moderately inoffensive. No way in hell is he going to risk Madonna making this whole scene even worse than it already is.

After about an hour, by which point the atmosphere between them has finally faded into the background a little and Dean is absently wondering for the five billionth time how the dude who drives the snowplough in winter gets to work every day (because this is the type of thing he thinks about when his mind wanders), Cas speaks up again. "I'll fix it," he says suddenly. "I'll make it up to you."

Dean looks over at him, at his determined expression like he's found the perfect solution and everything's going to work out now, and finds he doesn't have the heart to tell his friend that life isn't usually that easy.

They're still sharing a room—Sam pointedly asks for two at the motel where they end up, clearly wanting them to talk it out—and it's not even that bad, on the surface. They just watch TV like they used to on the nights when both were too tired for anything else, and after about twenty minutes Dean finds his eyelids drooping so he crawls into bed. Cas is still awake when he dozes off, staring intently at the flickering screen as if _Friends_ reruns hold the answers to all life's mysteries. Normal. But the whole time they're together, that night and the next and the next, Dean can feel Cas's eyes on him, like if he stares hard enough maybe he can figure Dean out.

Seriously, the guy's getting frigging bags under his eyes—he's losing _sleep_ over this. And it's progressed to something so much more than someone attempting to regain his fuck-buddy privileges, because the point of that whole setup is that it's no-strings-attached while what _they_ have somehow gotten themselves into is more tangled than an old lady's knitting basket. So many strings attached, in short, that it's gotten about twenty times more complicated than any actual relationship Dean can imagine; like, Dean's pretty sure Sam and Jess never had this many issues to work out, and they were legitimately a couple. The thing with him and Cas, though, is that it's reached the point where he can't actually tell what's wrong anymore: is it Cas trying to be human? Cas just being Cas? Cas trying to help Dean, because that's what Cas _always_ does? Cas getting confused from too much TV? Sam thinks they're in love. Dean thinks Sam's stupid. And Cas just keeps staring at Dean like he's a fucking Chinese puzzle box.

Christ. It's like being back in high school all over again. Sometimes Dean just wants to break down and fuck the guy, to make him stop fucking _trying_ so hard. But pity fucks never end well, and he figures he's already wreaked enough havoc on their friendship without screwing things up even more. So he sits in the middle of Cas's scrutinizing looks and Sam's meaningful ones and thinks that this goddamned Apocalypse cannot happen soon enough, as far as he's concerned.

And then everything changes. Again.

They're out fighting demons. God, Dean's sick of demons. It's just the same rinse-and-repeat routine over and over again, with the added bonus of having your life in mortal peril each time. Really fun stuff. In this particular case it's a small town where nearly all the officials have been possessed for actually quite a while now (it's kind of alarming, to be honest, how long it took anyone to notice), so they're at the city hall chucking around salt, holy water, Ruby's demon-killing knife, and hurriedly rattled-off exorcisms like there's no tomorrow—which, who knows, there may not be—and one of the bastards throws Cas down the stairs.

"Go!" Sam yells at Dean as they exchange looks of horror, and it's not because Sam thinks Dean showing concern for Cas would be super romantic or anything but because now that Cas is mostly human he's just as susceptible to broken necks and severe head injuries and all that fun non-supernatural stuff as the rest of them. "I'll hold them here!"

Dean doesn't stop to argue, taking the stairs three at a time and hurling a facefull of rock salt at some high-end lawyer bitch on the way until he can kneel beside Cas. "You okay?" he asks urgently.

Cas is already sitting up. He grimaces and rubs his elbow where it must have connected painfully (Dean can't help remembering how Cas experiences everything and mentally alters his description to _excruciatingly_) with the stone steps, but luckily other than that doesn't seem particularly unwell. "Fine," he says, and as he grasps the arm Dean offers him to help him to his feet the hem of his shirt lifts up slightly to reveal the top of his underwear, sitting low around his hips.

Holy. Shit.

He knows that pair—after all, he only bought four. They didn't get thrown out after he fucked things up with Cas, just shoved way down deep in the bottom of that old stag shop bag where he could theoretically pretend they didn't exist; and he doesn't know whether Cas found them by accident or because he went looking for them, but his usual generic guy-underwear has been replaced with something fringed with blue lace. Or rather, Dean remembers, not just _fringed with_ but actually _composed of_: all he can see right now is the band, but he remembers with blood-thumping clarity the panties composed entirely of the same type of lace that decorated his first trial pair, except in ice blue instead of black. All he can see right now is the band, but that is so much fucking more than enough.

His breath catches audibly in his throat, and he tears his eyes away to meet Cas's gaze. It's steady, serious, _they're in the middle of a fight and he just fell down the stairs, remember_—but there's something else, just a tinge of… satisfaction. And more than a hint of arousal, too, something that's mirrored almost exactly in Dean's expression if the sudden surge of lust shooting through his body is anything to go by.

Cas has done it, he's fucking _done it_. Because what their "understanding" lacked in novelty, compared to bringing home someone new every night, it made up for in the relative comfort of familiarity—you don't go bringing out your random kinks on total strangers. Somehow, he's still not entirely sure how, last time broke that for him; but this, this isn't an apology. Not at all. It's better than an apology. After all, most apologies don't leave Dean wanting to fling his gun aside and start groping the person responsible for said apology right here and now, regardless of any demonic activity that may be occuring in the vicinity.

He's not sure how long they stand like that, looking at each other hungrily—probably only a few seconds but at the rate Dean's brain has started firing off urgent signals it feels like a whole lot longer. Then a chunk of marble flies past Dean's ear, missing out on braining him by only about an inch, and oh yeah, they're supposed to be fighting demons right now, aren't they?

"A little help here, guys!" Sam shouts from up above, where the mayor has him pinned against the stair-rail by the neck. Cas shoots Dean one last charged look, half a promise and half a demand and altogether enough to make Dean's knees feel a little bit weak, and then he's running back up the stairs to hopefully stop the younger Winchester from getting his head ripped off.

It takes them another half hour of frantic, non-stop activity to get everything sorted out. Dean's a professional, he's been doing this for years—long enough that he can block everything else out when he has to, because if you don't learn to concentrate you die, basically—but as soon as the last body crumples to the floor with a gust of black smoke rushing out of the woman's mouth and back to Hell, his mind snaps sharply back to the fact that Cas, who is currently a bloody, dirty, _hot_ mess standing only a few feet away from him, is wearing a thong. _Shit._ He's telling himself not to think about it, what with all the bodies lying around the place not to mention Sam standing right behind them. He's telling himself not to picture it, the lace stretched tight around Cas's sharp hips and the dark, wiry hairs at the base of his cock visible through the sheer fabric and his balls sitting heavy in the garment's crotch because he _knows_ Cas hates jerking off himself when Dean's usually there to help him out instead.

He's telling himself they need to get back to the motel _right fucking now_.

"Well… that's done," Sam remarks. He drags the back of his arm across his grimy forehead, apparently totally oblivious to the sudden spike in tension between his two companions (which is amazing, because Dean personally can practically _taste_ the heaviness in the air). "Is anyone else hungry?"

"No," Dean says immediately, while at the same time Cas says, "Yes."

Dean glares at him. Cas raises his eyebrows innocently. Sam continues to be blissfully ignorant.

"Yes," Cas insists. "I think we should get dinner."

"Takeout?" Dean suggests hopefully, though they've eaten takeout or similar for pretty much the past three days.

"How about no," says Sam, making a face. "I want _real _food."

So, much to Dean's frustration, they go for dinner; though of course the Winchester definition of "real food" tends to be slightly different than that of people who actually have a kitchen at their disposal. Dean picks practically the first thing he sees on the menu in an effort to make the outing as short as possible, then starts to wonder if Sam and Cas are somehow conspiring in a torture campaign against him when Sam takes a good ten minutes to make a decision. Beside Dean Cas is being less than helpful as well, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table in a position that pulls the back of his jeans down slightly and the bottom of his shirt up. Not that he's staring or anything, but by the time their food comes the two vertebrae and half-inch of lace that can be seen in the gap between his shirt and pants seem to have been seared permanently into Dean's retinas.

"So what's next?" asks Cas as they (well, him and Sam, anyways—Dean's still too distracted to remember what exactly the meal in front of him is supposed to be) tuck into their dinners.

Sam shrugs. Apparently the world is taking its sweet time to end, dragging its heels like a gigantic petulant child. "Bobby mentioned something about a possible Wendigo over in Pennsylvania. It's not really that far from here, so I guess we could check that out."

Even as Cas is nodding assent, his left hand slips casually down from the table to twist around his back. Two fingers slide under the lace, running all the way around the back of the underwear, and maybe it really is just an adjustment for comfort's sake but Dean can feel his whole body heating up. His own fingers clench involuntarily around the fork he doesn't really remember picking up in the first place, and it takes an unreasonable amount of effort to keep himself from squirming in his seat—fuck, he just wants to climb into Cas's lap right here, screw public decency, and grind down against him nice and slow until he's _begging _for Dean to—

How come they're both staring at him? Shit. Say something. Pretend you were listening.

"What?" says Dean.

"I asked what you thought," Sam repeats, giving him a strange look.

"What I thought about what?"

"About going to Pennsylvania."

"Uh." What the hell? Why are they going to Pennsylvania? If the final dick-off between Michael and Lucifer is going down in _Pennsylvania_, someone's definitely got to reorganize their priorities. "Yeah, sounds great."

"Are you feeling okay?" Sam asks.

"Yeah. Yeah. Fine." Dean tries not to glower at Cas, the corners of whose mouth he can see quirking upwards in the beginnings of a smug smile. And so it goes on, for the rest of the too-long meal. And the ride back to the motel. And the saying goodnight to Sam, which involves far too much time deciding when they should leave the next morning and where to get breakfast and similarly unimportant things.

Finally, _finally_, they're alone in their room. Dean hesitates, because as much as he _wants_ he's not entirely sure he's just allowed to touch; and then Cas hits him with that stare, that fucking _intense_ stare of his, and the next thing he knows they're tumbling onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and hastily discarded clothing and Cas's mouth is _everywhere_, kissing and nipping and licking hot, wet stripes down his bare chest. He ends up on the bottom somehow, pinned beneath Cas's weight; which is so totally okay with him, because it means he can't even move without pressing up against the heat of Cas's skin.

Except suddenly Cas's hands are tightening around his wrists, his knees pressing Dean's legs into the bed so that the hunter is effectively trapped. It should probably freak him out—throughout Dean's entire extensive history of being held down against various surfaces the person (or creature, sometimes) has very rarely had even remotely good intentions—but… well, maybe he wouldn't call himself a sub, but sometimes he likes to be dominated. Gets off on having someone else in control, ordering him around, doing whatever they want to him. He hasn't gotten a chance at submission in a very long time, not the kind he likes anyways, since he's too cautious to give someone he only met a few hours ago that amount of power over him, but if Cas wants to go there that's more than okay with him.

"We need to talk," says Cas.

"Huh?" says Dean, who is having a great amount of difficult thinking straight due to the fact that Cas's lace-clad crotch his currently rubbing against his own. It's just really his night for intelligent conversation.

"We need to talk," Cas repeats. "About this."

_Seriously_? Cas wants to talk _now_? When he's hard and basically naked with another hard and basically naked guy underneath him willing to do whatever he wants? "No offense, Cas," he chokes out, biting back a moan with some difficult as a slight movement from Cas drags the fabric over his cock, "but I don't think _oh my God, yes,_ I don't think this is really the best time."

"No, I mean, about this in general. I can't read your mind, Dean. I won't know what you want unless you tell me."

Which is a fair enough point, because even though talking about capital-_s_ Stuff isn't part of the Dean Winchester Way he does _not_ want a repeat of last time, especially if it means a veto (temporary or, heaven forbid, permanent) on sex from either of them. Plus, he has to give Cas major credit for the fact that he's managed to keep himself together enough to get that point across coherently.

"Okay," he gasps. "Okay, well, do you know what I want right now, Cas?" He struggles free of Cas's grasp, snaking his arms around the man's back to hook his thumbs through Cas's underwear and squeeze his pretty-much-bare ass. "I want you to get off me, and bring that bag over here, and then I want you to fuck me."

Cas's breath catches in his throat and he just stares at Dean, a little bit nervous and a _lot_ turned on. "Are you sure? I've never…"

"Do you want that?" Cas hesitates, but only for a moment before nodding. "Then you'll be fine. I'll talk you through it." Dean presses a gentle kiss against the side of Cas's mouth, trying to soothe him. It feels kind of weird, kind of overly intimate for two guys who're just supposed to be fucking for fun—but who the hell gets to decide that, anyways? Who gets to say what's okay and what's not for them? His friend is nervous. Dean doesn't want him to be. End of story. He's been this gentle with dozens of nameless girls and a few namelss guys, as well, and no one's ever tried to convince him he's in love with any of _them_.

So Cas gets up, and Dean can't help palming his own cock as he watches Cas and his only-covered-by-the-loosest-definition-of-the-word erection walk across the room to dig out the lube. "Is there a ring in there, too?" Dean asks, forcing himself to still his hands—he can do that any time. Just a little longer and then he'll be _fuck, _no, he can't even think about it without his cock starting to ache almost painfully.

After a moment more of pawing through the bag's contents Cas holds up a green rubber ring—green, because Sam let him pick it out and Cas seems to have a thing for green, though Dean refuses to think about why this might be. Tilting his head to one side slightly in evident confusion, Cas asks, "Like this?"

"Yeah. Bring it here."

Dean tugs Cas down onto his lap as soon as he's close enough, sliding blue lace down to toss away with the rest of their clothes and then slowly, carefully stretching out the ring over Cas's cock until it settles around the base. The noise it elicits is a combination of surprise and pleasure at the restricted sensation, and Cas's cheeks are flushed, his eyes dark and his lips parted ever so slightly and Dean didn't even know it was possible to get this hard, _fuck._ "It'll keep you going longer," he tells Cas. "Make this last longer." Though at the rate they're going now, Dean's the one who'll need the help here. "Give me a minute—you can watch, but try not to touch yourself," he adds, grabbing the lube and slicking up his fingers.

It's been ages since he bottomed for anyone, but the first finger slips in with ease and minimal discomfort; he'll admit he does this to himself once in a while, when he's alone and knows he won't be interrupted for a while. A second finger joins the first, stretching himself out; a shudder rolls through his body as he brushes against his prostate and fuck, _fuck_ he wants to do that again—but he can't, he has to wait, focus on Cas—Cas, who's sitting there watching him with eyes that are just blue-ringed black now. Like watching Dean fuck himself on his own fingers is the hottest thing he's ever seen, like he could get off on this alone—and Dean can see how fucking tortuous it is for him, the way he's fidgeting desperately but keeping his hands knotted determinedly in the bedspread as per Dean's instructions.

Third finger—almost there, _thank fucking God_, he's not sure either he or Cas can take this much longer—and he can't help crooking his fingers just a little so that they graze that spot inside him again and _shit, okay, enough_, he needs Cas inside him right fucking _now._ He pulls his hand out, groaning at the sudden emptiness—Cas, just wait for Cas and oh, wow, the head of Cas's cock is nearly purple with blood despite the restrictions of the ring around its base as Dean coats it in lube with a few clumsy strokes.

And then he's sinking down onto Cas's lap, feeling his cock slide slowly deeper and deeper inside and there's that overwhelming feeling of _fullness_ you just can't get the same way with your own hand. Cas's fingers dig into the muscles of his arms, hard enough it'll probably bruise, and through the haze of his own pleasure Dean can hear Cas gasping, "Dean, _oh_, Dean, _Dean_," as he tries to adjust to the sudden hot tightness surrounding his cock.

Dean starts to move, at first just grinding down against Cas because it's been so long since he was filled up like this and right now he doesn't want to lose even an inch of this incredible, burning pleasure; the harder he grinds the more the ring rubs against him too, _fuck_, and Cas's moans are getting louder—this _would_ be the one night Sam managed to get them a pair of adjacent rooms, goddamnit. Cas pulls him in tighter to press their heaving chests together, and Dean seizes the opportunity to claim his mouth in a messy kiss. It muffles the sounds slightly, directing them instead to vibrate down Dean's throat, but it's also—well, you know what, Dean also just likes kissing Cas, so why the hell shouldn't he?

Okay, enough, enough, he needs more, he needs to feel Cas fucking _slam_ into him—"Move," he moans, "oh, God, Cas, move, please—"

"Only if you refrain from using our Father's name again," Cas says, sounding simultaneously wrecked and disapproving.

"Sorry—"

There's a moment of hesitation as Cas tries to figure out how to do what Dean wants when they're already pressed so close together, and then in a movement that's not particularly graceful but hell, Dean passed the point of caring about that a long time ago Cas lowers him onto the bed, hooking Dean's legs around his waist and grasping his hips; he pulls out, just a little, then pushes gently back in. Except it's too little, too gentle, Dean knows Cas doesn't want to hurt him but right now he just wants it _hard_, wants to feel like Cas is splitting him open inside. "More, c'mon Cas—I can take it—"

It takes a few tries and a lot of cajoling from Dean to persuade Cas he can take it harder, faster, but finally Cas is pulling nearly all the way out before _slamming_ back in, setting a brutal pace as his brain shuts down altogether and he just seems to give in to what his body demands. Dean's going to feel this tomorrow but right now, right now with spots bursting in front of his eyes every time Cas's cock rams into his prostate, right now with the fucking obscene sound of his own cock slapping against Cas's abdomen with every forward shove—right now it is _so fucking worth it._

"Dean," Cas gasps, "Dean, I can't—I need to—"

It's that green ring, dragging this out far longer than Cas would have been able to manage on his own. "Just keep going," Dean urges, because he's so close, _so damn close_, and with his cock left untouched it's been building up longer, more powerful than usual. "Almost there, I promise—_shit, _shit, Cas, do that again, _Cas_—"

He can feel his balls tightening, and the heat that's been growing gradually in him spikes unbearably—Cas draws out as far as he can, and then he's thrusting roughly back in and that's it, that's fucking _it_, it's shoving Dean forcefully over the edge, fists slamming into the bed with a dull _thud_ as he comes. His orgasm punches through his body in ruthless waves and Cas hasn't stopped, he just keeps fucking into Dean, fucking him all the way through it and this is too much, his eyes are rolling back into his head and Cas chokes out a moan as Dean's walls clench around his already over-stimulated cock—Dean's vision is just starting to clear when he feels Cas's nails dig sharply into the skin at his hips as he wildly bucks forward once more and then he's filling Dean up, head thrown back and muscles shaking and _holy fucking shit._ He feels like he's just run a marathon, exhausted but tingling with an inactive, satisfied energy. Wow. He hasn't felt this good in _ages._

"Fuck, Cas," he says as his friend collapses dazedly on the bed beside him. "That was _awesome."_

Cas presses his nose against the side of Dean's face and agrees vehemently, "_Yes._"

"You should wear a thong more often," he adds, pulling Cas in for one last lazy kiss.

"Perhaps. Although I think the look is more suited to you, personally."

Dean's brain is too pleasure-sated to try to read into this, twist it into something it's not that would just get him angry again. Maybe Cas is saying it because Dean's stockier than he is so there's more contrast, or maybe because wearing panties turns Dean on and Cas likes to see him turned on. Whatever. For once he's not going to over-analyze, just bask in the after-glow of their recent activities. The rest of the world can wait one goddamned night.


	13. Chapter 13

The rest of the world does indeed deign to wait the requested night, though it spitefully insists on sending an envoy at what seems to be the earliest possible hour to barge back into their life in the form of Sam Winchester, knocking loudly at their door the next morning and insisting they get ready to leave.

"It's almost nine o'clock, you guys!" he calls, sounding disgustingly wide-awake. "How are you still asleep?"

Dean growls something unintelligible into his pillow and wonders why he hasn't murdered his brother yet. Beside him Cas sits up, blinking sleepily; somehow Cas never quite managed to make it back to his own bed the night before and just ended up passing out curled against Dean's side instead. It was kind of nice, if Dean's being honest with himself, not having to wake up on his own for once; when the Winchesters were younger he'd sleep with Sam sometimes, when Dean was missing their mom more than usual or when Sam was sick or when their dad had been gone an especially long time and they were just feeling kind of lonely. But it's been a long time since he could do that without feeling like a child, so he's a little bit grateful to Cas for doing it without him having to ask, even if it only happened because Cas was exhausted and comfortable enough with Dean to be lazy.

The knocking has yet to cease, despite Dean's best attempts to block it out by shoving a pillow over his head. "_Guys!_ Hurry up!"

He feels the bed shift as Cas swings his legs down, stretching his arms behind his head before standing; Dean takes the opportunity to appreciate the way his muscles of his bare back move under his skin before saying, "I hope you're getting up to go put a bullet through Sam's brain."

Cas looks shocked. "What? Why would I want to do that?"

"Joke, Cas. Relax." Though the possibility is seeming more tempting by the minute—stupid little brothers. Why can't they just take the day off for once? "You having a shower?"

"Yes," says Cas, who seems relieved to be on firmer footing here. "Very quickly, since Sam appears eager to leave."

"Yeah, right—guess I'd better join you before he busts an artery or something."

He says it without thinking, without considering that maybe Cas doesn't _want_ Dean in the shower with him; but Cas simply nods, frowning slightly as he asks with concern, "Is that very likely to happen?"

"Just go turn the water on," says Dean, rolling his eyes. By the time he works up the energy to pull himself upright—god_damn_, his ass is sore—he can already hear the sound of running water from the small bathroom mixing with Sam's growing impatience. "Jesus, Sam, give it a rest!" he yells. "We'll be out soon!"

There's a pause in the insistent knocking. "How soon?"

"Like, in not very long."

"I've been ready to go for _ages_, Dean! Can I at least come in and wait?"

Dean takes a look around the room. The lube's still out, the cock ring's sitting beside it, the sheets of one bed are a tangled mess while the other clearly hasn't been slept in at all, yesterday's clothes are lying in a careless heap where they were discarded in haste last night, and both him and Cas are totally naked. Sam may be freakily okay (hell, freakily _enthusiastic_) about his brother and his friend screwing each other's brains out on a regular basis in _theory_, but Dean feels like he's be a little less happy when confronted with the actual physical evidence. Fuck, _someone's_ got to feel awkward about it, and if it isn't Sam it's going to end up being Dean himself, he just knows it. So he says, very firmly, "No."

"Why not?"

"We're… in the shower." Almost in the shower. Almost.

Sam doesn't say anything for a moment, and Dean starts to hope that maybe he's won him over with his (kind of) infallible logic.

Then: "What, both of you?"

Oh, God. This is just going to open up a whole _slew_ of new you-guys-are-totally-in-love-and-you're-just-too-scared-to-admit-it conversations. _Fantastic._ But he's already said it once and he might as well go through with it now, so he grits his teeth and says, "Yeah."

"Together?"

"_Yeah_, Sam. We're just about as excited to get to Pennsylvania as you are. No time for two showers when you're going to _Pennsylvania_."

And then he goes and climbs in the shower with Cas, which is hot and wet and crowded, and he thinks about how now he's crossed two lines he never meant to cross, what with the sleeping together last night and then this. He thinks about it after they've gotten dressed and cleaned up the room and piled into the Impala, while they're driving to Pennsylvania with Sam grinning like a kid at Christmas whenever he looks at either of them. He thinks about how yeah, probably if he had a normal monster-free life and Cas was just his non-angelic normal best friend, they would be dating by now. He thinks about how he likes touching Cas, how he likes being with Cas, how he just likes _Cas_ in general.

He thinks about how it doesn't matter because he is never, ever, ever going to let himself fall in love with Cas.

He's happy where things are, anyways, or as happy as he ever is. It's okay. He likes the sex, he likes the friendship, and chances are that in a few months or maybe weeks they'll all be dead. Because even if they somehow manage to save the world, they are not getting out of this alive. He's not even sure he wants to, anymore.

So things go back to normal.

Sam tries unsuccessfully to teach Cas how to use a camera, with the result that Cas's phone is now filled up with random, fuzzy pictures of things that are sometimes identifiable as Dean or Sam and sometimes identifiable as the inside of Cas's pocket but often not identifiable at all. Cas catches a cold, for real this time, and ends up sitting out the Wendigo hunt, instead moping around the motel room looking extremely sorry for himself; Dean seems to spend all his spare time coaxing his friend into choking down cough syrup (_just one mouthful, man, I swear you'll feel better)_, which is totally ridiculous considering the ease with which Cas manages to swallow _other_ things on a regular basis. As life with the Winchesters goes it's practically a vacation—no crazy sacrifices (unless you count Dean letting Cas pick the TV channel in the evenings), no angels and demons, no impossible choices. Nothing but one elusive, deadly, man-eating monster to hunt down, a quick (hopefully) track-and-dispose-of job.

When Dean and Sam finally straggle out of Ohiopyle State Park after taking down not one but _two_ frigging Wendigos, Dean nursing a badly twisted ankle on top of the assorted cuts and scrapes accumulated by both of them, Sam says, "You know, I've been thinking."

"Hallelujah," says Dean, who is not in the kind of mood that particularly encourages conversation.

Sam ignores him. "I was thinking about you and dad. How you never said anything because you didn't think he's be okay with it."

Dean doesn't have to ask what he's talking about.

"But, I don't know. I think he would have been okay with it. I think he would have been okay with you and Cas, as long as you were happy."

On a normal day he would have made some sarcastic comment, driving off Sam's attempt at what passes for emotional intimacy for them. But right now his ankle is throbbing and he's too worn out to come up with something suitably snarky and they're in the middle of nowhere, so he just shrugs tiredly and says, "Maybe. But I was fifteen, man. It seemed like a pretty big fucking deal at the time."

"I guess."

"Also, there is no "me and Cas"." And here they go, back to the same argument they've had dozens of times before; the one where the points never change but neither do their opinions on the matter, which means it'll just keep getting rehashed over and over until someone finally gives in. This time, though, Sam doesn't even say anything—he just gives Dean this sympathetic look that has him stewing resentfully for the entire ride back to their rooms.

By the time they've decided where to go next Cas is almost entirely better, and thank _God_ for that—if it comes down to a choice between saying yes to Michael and looking after a sick kind-of-angel again, Dean will take being used as an angel condom without a second thought. And now that Cas is better, Dean can't help his mind drifting back to the way Cas pinned him down the night before they left for Pennsylvania, how there's enough angel left in him that even though he's thinner and smaller than Dean is he still managed to totally immobilize him, how he really kind of loved bottoming for Cas and definitely wouldn't mind trying it again. How both he and Cas put an ambiguous _maybe_ down when confronted with the matter of bondage.

True to his word (which technically shouldn't even count since he agreed when Cas was rubbing his blue-lace-clad junk against Dean's bare cock, but it's actually a good idea so whatever), he tries to bring the matter up with Cas before just getting naked and demanding to be tied up. They're in the car, as usual, with Sam dozing in the back seat and Cas sitting shotgun staring absently out the window as the countryside flashes by.

He's waiting for Cas to look over and make eye contact, so that he knows Dean has something to say because it's not exactly a conversation Dean's had a lot of practice with; but Cas seems pretty enthralled by the unchanging stretch of thick forest running beside the road. Eventually he gets tired of waiting and, after taking a few breaths to psych himself up to it, blurts out, "I think we should try something new."

Cas tears himself away from the forest. "New?" he asks. There's no way to tell for sure if he knows what Dean's talking about or not, but from the way he runs his tongue seemingly without noticing over his lips Dean's willing to bet he's got an educated guess. "Like what?"

"How about sushi?" Sam suggests from the back seat, apparently not as asleep as Dean had originally thought, damnit. And that's pretty much the end of _that_ conversation, at least for the time being.

(As it happens they _do_ end up trying sushi, despite Dean dragging his heels, at a tiny restaurant somewhere in New York. None of them know what to order or how to use chopsticks but Cas translates the weird Japanese names so they at least have a fighting chance. Dean's actually starting to admit grudgingly that's okay, really, when he ingenuously eats something Cas tells him is called wasabi; five minutes of swearing, choking, and ineffectively gulping down water later, and even Cas is laughing while Sam's practically on the floor in hysterics. All in all, Dean decides, he definitely prefers burgers.)

He brings it up again later, when it's just him and Cas back in their room at the end of the day. It's an awkward, unpleasant conversation, with a lot of blushing and vague _you know_'s from Dean and an irritatingly unabashed curiosity from Cas—but hey, it gets the job done, and without the several-day-hiatus that his trying to introduce something new on his own resulted in. While Cas seems to regard the prospect with skepticism, clearly unsure how it could actually be pleasurable for anyone to be willingly tied up, he's more than willing to play along if Dean wants to; and based on the fact that Cas mysteriously tends to end up on top most of the time on the occasions when they wrestle it out beforehand to see who's calling the shots, Dean's pretty sure Cas is going to like it too.

He's wearing those same blank-and-pink panties again, getting a fiery tingle running through his body as he feels them under his jeans during the course of the day, and when Sam's busy impersonating an FBI agent on the phone to the local police station Dean lets the top of his pants dip down just low enough to give Cas a peak. Cas's eyes flash darkly, giving him the intense stare that gets him so fucking hot now, and that's it; between the sensation of the satin cupping his cock and those _looks _every time he happens to meet Cas's gaze, he spends the rest of the day putting the majority of his energy into not getting an inappropriately public boner.

When they finally (_finally_, after Sam has obliviously made them squeeze far more productivity out of the daylight hours than is at all necessary) get back to their room with the prospect of several interrupted hours of privacy to themselves, they're all over each other—hands tangling in a desperate rush to get the other's clothes off, kissing feverishly, pressing every possible inch of warm skin together until Dean's hard and so fucking wet. They've already slipped easily into their roles, Cas shoving Dean down beneath him on the bed and Dean obeying, blood pounding with anticipation, as Cas orders him to roll over.

They're starting out simple, no whips and chains or anything—Dean's into being pushed around a little, but not _that_ into it. Just Cas's tie binding his wrists tightly behind his back and a blindfold knotted around his eyes, and even though maybe it's kind of missing the point Cas's fingers are gentle as he ties the fabric. It doesn't matter—in fact it helps him relax enough to enjoy this, even, because when you're a hunter doing bondage you need every reassurance you can get that whoever you're with isn't going to turn on you—because what does it for him is the getting pushed around, the not being able to do anything. It's probably all kinds of sick and twisted and wrong but once in a while he _likes_ being tied down and not allowed to touch—likes wanting to touch and being denied, wanting to come and having to ask for permission.

With the blindfold all he can do is feel, and somehow cutting out sight makes him feel so much more because all he has to concentrate on is the heavy heat of Cas's body straddling his waist, every touch electric; and then Cas starts to move, _holy fuck_, rubbing up against his ass. Cas is hard, so hard it must be taking a hell of a lot of effort not to just start fucking him right now, and the lube's still sitting as-of-yet unused on the bedside table but Dean's ass is already slick with Cas's pre-come. It's teasing, the worst kind of teasing because Dean can't tease him back or really do anything but take it, take it until he's begging Cas to _just fuck me already, please, Cas_, and he's completely at the other man's mercy and right now he fucking _loves _it. His cock is pressed against his stomach, providing the tiniest hint of friction whenever Cas moves against him, though Cas is holding him firmly enough that Dean barely moves at all underneath him.

"What should I do to you, Dean?" Cas whispers, putting his mouth right beside Dean's ear so that he can _feel_ the air being displaced as Cas speaks. "Should I leave you here? Should I leave you hard and tell you to stay still? Could you do that for me, if I asked? If I promised to come back and use you the way you want to be used?"

Cas is an angel again, able to stitch a mutilated soul back into its new-old house of sinew and muscle and bone or to level an entire town if he chooses to use his powers for destruction, and it's terrifying and dangerous and fucking _exhilarating_ to have such a creature on top of him. Every hunter's instinct is shouting at him to struggle, get free, fight back—and for once, he doesn't have to listen. For once he can say _no_ without it costing him his life. He holds as still as he can, ignoring both the self-taught urge to defend himself and the even more primal, inborn compulsion to rub against the bed since he can't move his arms, to ease the throbbing ache of his cock.

And then—

Cas leans back again and for a moment, just one brief moment, his elbow digs into Dean's back. It's an accident, no more than a clumsy half-loss of balance on Cas's part; Dean struggles to draw breath for that one moment and then the pressure's gone again. But he inhales and it isn't the musky, sex-infused air of the motel room filling his lungs, it's sulfur and ash and the stench of charring flesh, his own maybe, and he's choking on the blood filling his mouth and why can't he move, _why the hell can't he move_, they're holding him down again and what are they going to do this time, _help, please, somebody—where's Sam, he needs Sam_—

Someone's hands—he can't even remember whose, at this point—are deftly loosening the knot that binds his desperately thrashing wrists. The tie falls away and he twists frantically over, ripping off the blindfold and tumbling off the bed in a heap. He can hear someone saying something, sounding concerned rather than malicious, and he can see now that he's still in one of the endless string of grungy motel rooms and not back in Hell after all, or at least—he's getting two different scenes overlaid in his mind, and maybe the room's real or maybe it's not, he can't tell anymore. The room is too small and the other place is too vast, too agoraphobic, and he wants out of the room but he's terrified of what might be outside.

Somehow he makes it to the bathroom before heaving up everything in his stomach, still retching and coughing even when there's nothing left until the walls of his abdomen feel like they're caving in. Eventually his body calms down and allows him to collapse against the side of the bathtub, and now the memories of Hell are still too vivid but at least they're just that—memories. Not real, not anymore. He got out. He got out.

There's someone sitting beside him. Cas. Cas, who pulled him out. Who rebuilt his body and gave him back to Sam. Cas, who always comes when Dean needs him to. Cas, who's an angel and angels don't belong in Hell so Dean _knows_ he can't be there anymore. His fingers are clutching at Cas's bare skin just to reaffirm, digging in so hard it must be hurting Cas but right now he doesn't care. Can't care, for once, about anything other than himself.

Cas isn't saying anything, probably because he doesn't know what he's supposed to say. He's seen Dean cry before, once, but never fall apart like this, because Dean is always so careful to keep himself together. And it's been nearly two years since he crawled out of his grave, so he ought to have had a chance to get his life back in order by now, even with Ruby and the Apocalypse and the whole world falling to shit around him.

But it was forty years. Forty _fucking_ years.

"I'm sorry," says Cas quietly.

"Why'd you let it happen? Why didn't you stop it? You could have stopped it. You could have stopped it. You could have saved Sam and I wouldn't have had to sell my soul and _none_ of this would be happening, you selfish fucking bastard." His throat is raw from throwing up; it hurts to speak, yet somehow now that he's started the words won't seem to stop coming, even though they're hateful and nonsensical and _he's_ the one who's being selfish here, not Cas. "You could have pulled me out sooner instead of waiting for your goddamned orders and I wouldn't have broken the first seal and none of this would be happening and _this is all your fault_—"

Which isn't fair at all, of course. He should be grateful someone thought he deserved to be saved in the first place, not whining that they didn't do it sooner. And why the fuck would Cas have broken ranks to save some good-for-nothing loser he didn't even know? People go to Hell every day. What's one more soul amongst a million exactly identical? Cas wasn't even Cas then, not the way Dean and Sam know him. He was just another angel, obedient and unquestioning; rebellion was an impossibility, until the Winchesters started rubbing off their stupid human traits on him.

"I swear to God I remember every single fucking second, Cas, every time I got fucking ripped apart and all those other souls, the ones that are on _my_ head because you had to fucking _wait_ until I couldn't take it anymore and I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you—" And it's so stupid, because he's saying that and he means it _so much_ right now but he still can't fucking let go of Cas, who's sitting on the floor beside him with one arm wrapped tightly around Dean's shoulder and just _taking_ everything Dean hurls at him without trying to defend himself or telling Dean he's being completely unreasonable or _anything—_

Eventually he must wear himself out—there's only so long you can stay that scared and that angry. It's exhausting. He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he wakes up and there's daylight streaming in through the curtains and he's under the covers of his own bed. Castiel's thumb is stroking over the bruised knuckles of his right hand—he tells Dean later that he kept punching the floor, over and over until Cas worried he might break a bone, not that Dean remembers it—with his fingers curled loosely around it and yeah, okay, basically they're just holding hands. It ought to be comforting. Instead it just makes Dean start to hate him again, for being a better person than he is even though Cas isn't even human and for a bunch of other confused, tangled reasons he doesn't have the energy to sort through right now; but here he goes with this dumb inexplicable paradox thing once more, because he doesn't want to let go, either.

With what seems like a ridiculous amount of effort considering the task, Dean finally manages to meet Cas's gaze. His friend looks tired, dead tired. Hollow. There are bruises on his arms in the shape of fingerprints that send a surge of half-hearted guilt running through Dean.

They stare at each other in silence. Over half a million words in the English language, and neither can think of a damn thing to say.

"Where's Sam?" Dean asks after a while.

"Getting lunch, I think. I told him you were unwell. I could try calling him, if you would like to see him."

"No, it's okay."

Another long pause.

"Sorry," Dean adds, staring fixedly at the blank TV screen across from him. "For… yeah. Sorry."

"There is nothing you need to apologize for," says Cas. Which is nice of him to say, even if it's not true.


	14. Chapter 14

They don't talk about it, after.

Not with Sam, whose blissful lack of more-than-usual concern about his brother's wellbeing seems to indicate he hasn't been told about the incident, and not with each other. Cas doesn't even try to bring it up, for which Dean is extremely grateful. There's really nothing to be said.

To be honest the whole thing isn't exactly a huge game-changer. It's not like Dean's time in Hell is supposed to be some big secret (especially not from Cas, of all people), nor should the fact that he's totally fucking messed up come as a huge surprise to anyone. For a few days there's a distance between them as Dean struggles with embarrassment and still some anger and okay, yeah, a few leftover nightmares and probably a bunch of other stuff thrown in there as well; Cas does nothing to try and dispel Dean's coolness, instead guessing accurately that it will thaw on its own. The only real difference is that when they start having sex again (with the topic of bondage carefully avoided by silent mutual consensus) there's a certain tentative tenderness every time Cas touches him, like he's some delicate, fragile thing that might shatter at any moment. Probably not even a conscious act on Cas's part and honestly, if Cas had freaked out that way on Dean he'd feel the same, but it sets Dean's teeth on edge somehow.

In other news, the world has decided that actually it maybe kind of does want to get on with the whole ending business after all. Omens are cropping up like it's going out of style, body counts are off the charts, and one tiny, impossible coincidence that leaves Dean with no choice but to accept that someone's got it in for him on a cosmic level provides the trio with an unwanted—not to mention nearly fatal for both the Winchesters and the human race—angelic encounter. It's a small town, overrun with both a) vamps, which Dean, Sam, and Cas are there to wipe out, and b) one not-even-that-important kind-of prophet who nonetheless warrants the occasional heavenly check-up.

It's close. Closer than any of them care to admit. Dean's on his knees in the old farmhouse that's the sight of this latest showdown, trying to remind his lungs and heart and basically the rest of his organs how they're supposed to work as Zachariah alternates between thrusting Dean into excruciating pain, which isn't so bad, and making him watch Sam in excruciating pain, which is obviously a million times worse. And Dean is _so close_ to breaking down, to just giving in and saying _yes_ to Michael, because everything hurts in him and it's pretty much inevitable anyways and he's just so goddamned _tired_—but at the last minute Cas shows up with a small army of hellhounds, courtesy of Crowley though how the hell that happened Dean has no idea.

Those brothers and sisters of Castiel who are present—because they are still his siblings, whatever may have happened between them—react with absolute, terrifying rage. They scream insults and threats at him as they try to fend off the hounds, to which Cas responds with a glowering, silent fury of his own that makes it difficult for Dean to believe the guy is actually pretty much limp power-wise these days.

"You have fallen in every possible way, Castiel," Zachariah hisses as the outnumbered angels finally begin to cave and retreat. "And when we are victorious I will _personally _ensure you burn in the deepest pits of Hell with the most deplorable of the sinners, until your blackened grace is as twisted as that of Lucifer himself."

Cas stares at him, the two of them seeming to be surrounded in their own little bubble of silence as chaos rages around them. "Hell will not take me, brother," he says, and Dean thinks he can hear an echo of the voice that nearly shattered his entire body when they were inside Cas's head. "Our Father bade us worship His creations as we do Him—yet out of all of you, I am the only one who fights for them. He will not see me punished."

And then they are alone in the barn again, with only the ghost of Zachariah's disbelieving laughter as he vanished to confirm that anything happened here at all. They pick themselves up, drag themselves home with no evidence of physical injury left over from the encounter but feeling far more beaten down than after any of their recent hunts. At least then there is the satisfaction of winning, of ending something; here is just a lucky escape, with the burden of knowing it will happen again until someone (Dean) breaks weighing heavily on all three.

Weighing heavily on Dean, at least, and Cas seems to be brooding over his last words—probably trying to convince himself to believe them, because despite the iron certainty in every line of his body as he spoke to Zachariah, when he turned afterwards his expression was full of doubt. They're really quite the pair, aren't they? Even their insecurities have insecurities, with an added pinch of self-loathing. Awesome.

And then there's Sam, who shakes off the whole ordeal and everything that goes along with it in a remarkable matter of minutes to ask, "So, who wants pizza?"

Dean's eyes flick instinctively to Cas, certain he's heard wrong but needing to double check. Cas just stares back, equally confused. They were, like, ten seconds away from watching the world collapse, their best friend just got promised an eternity of unimaginable torment, they both had to suffer through a brief yet agonizing bout with late-stage untreated stomach cancer _again_—and Sam wants a fucking _pizza?_

"I don't know about you guys," Sam goes on, apparently totally unaware of his companions' astonishment, "but I'm starving."

"Yeah, because stomach cancer always gives me such a huge appetite," says Dean.

"Hey, I'm just—"

"Did you maybe miss the part where the world almost ended, Sam? The part where I almost said yes? If Cas had shown up a minute later we'd be tearing each other apart right now. This whole town would be gone already."

"Yeah, but it's not, and we're okay," says Sam mildly. "We're safe and I'm hungry, so I think we should get pizza." And neither Dean nor Cas can think of anything to say to this, so they go to get pizza.

Dean wouldn't exactly call it an unrivalled success. The one pizza they get to split between the three of them is vegetarian because he was stupid enough to let Sam order, so he spends the whole meal picking peppers and broccoli and spinach and other weird things that have no place on a proper American pizza off his portion. Cas seems to have forgotten he's human and barely eats at all, instead glaring murderously at the food with an aura of simmering wrath that suggests the pizza has done him a grievous and unforgivable wrong, possibly something even worse than merely daring to contain such an unreasonable number of vegetables.

It only gets worse when they get back to their motel—they're all in one room since the place is practically booked up, and they're trying to decide on their next move while packing up with the attitude that they ought to be out of there by evening at the latest; but Cas is giving Dean the Cas version of an extremely suggestive look (which is a lot less flirty and a lot more to the point and therefore also a lot more of a turn-on, at least for Dean) and Dean is trying unsuccessfully to ignore it, with the result that neither of them are paying much attention to Sam, who eventually gives up and just tells them he'll be back in two hours so have fun.

As soon as Sam is out of the room, Cas starts taking his clothes off. Quickly and efficiently, like he's at the doctor's office for a medical exam instead of trying to get laid. Not that he really has to _try_ most of the time with Dean, but still. It's weird. He sits on the end of the less-used bed (the whole sleeping-in-separate beds thing is getting less and less common somehow), legs spread wide and giving Dean a look that says _well? Aren't you coming?_

This is probably (definitely) a bad idea, since sex that isn't just about having fun or being in love or whatever is always a bad idea and Dean's pretty sure there's something else going on here. But there's the whole power thing again (minus the unwanted flashback-inducing bondage this time), and if that sizzling energy weren't enough to get Dean hot there's the fact that Cas seems to have grown impatient and is palming his own cock as he waits for Dean to make up his mind, and considering Dean occasionally just makes Cas touch himself while he watches to get off this is pretty damn distracting. Besides, Dean's never been one for making good decisions when it comes to his own wellbeing; it started out as plain old rebellion in high school, and somewhere along the way seems to have grown into habit. So he strips down and slides in between Cas's legs, and Cas starts kissing him like Dean hasn't gotten the memo yet and the world actually _is_ going to end today.

"Dean," Cas says as they're grinding into each other, hard enough that all Dean's earlier inhibitions have gone straight out the window.

"Yeah?" Dean pants.

"I want you to fuck me."

"Uh. Okay," says Dean. In retrospect, it's probably not his best line.

But that's what ends up happening, Dean snapping his hips again and again into Cas with pure pleasure on his part (Cas is tight and hot and_ fuck_, it's been a long time since he's done this) and an odd sort of desperation from Cas. For the first time since he found out what being in Cas's mind was like he wishes he could have just one more look, because the only thing clearer than the fact that something's going on with Cas is that he doesn't want to talk about it.

Whatever it is, though, Dean screwing him senseless seems to help; when they're sprawled on the bed after, both feeling too lazy to bother getting up and getting dressed, a burden appears to have been lifted from Cas's shoulders. He's wearing the same sleepily content expression he usually sports after one of their "sessions", anyways, so all in all it looks like everything's worked out okay and Dean won't have to spend the rest of his life (which probably won't be very long anyways) putting up with a moody kind-of-angel.

"You should bottle up your anger more often, Cas," says Dean. "That was kind of awesome."

"Really?" asks Cas, sounding vaguely perturbed. "Sam usually advises the opposite…"

"Yeah, well… he's not the one getting amazing sex out of it."

"He says the same about you, as well," Cas says, ignoring Dean's comment. "In fact, he seems very concerned with your mental health."

Dean rolls his eyes. "What, do you guys gossip about me whenever I'm not around or something?"

"No, he just takes a great amount of interest in our relationship."

"It's not a—"

"He has asked me a total of seven times if I am in love with you," Cas continues matter-of-factly.

"What?" He supposes he shouldn't be surprised, really; Sam bugs him enough about it that it kind of figures he'd get on Cas's case once in a while too. But for some reason the statement throws him a little, so instead of laughing it off or making some sarcastic comment about Sam being very in touch with his inner pre-teen girl he finds himself asking, for no apparent reason because what the hell does it matter, "When?"

"Once before I fell, twice before we became Friends with Benefits, and periodically after that," says Cas with a shrug. Which is good, right? Him not thinking it's a big deal is good, because it means he doesn't think _not_ being in love with Dean is a big deal. Or maybe because he _is_ in love with Dean and he thinks _that's_ not a big deal. Shit.

"And, uh, what do you tell him?" Dean asks, since now he really has to know.

"I don't know."

Bullshit. "You have to know. You're the one who says it."

"No, I mean that's what I tell him. I've never been in love with anyone before. I don't know what it feels like."

"Oh," says Dean.

He suddenly finds himself wishing for Sam to return very, very soon.

Cas doesn't seem particularly fazed by their conversation, but now that the possibility of at least one of them feeling a little more than friendship for the other has been brought out kind of into the open (by someone other than the extremely delusional Sam, that is), Dean can't get it off his mind. He loves being friends with Cas. He loves having sex with Cas. He's even pretty sure he loves Cas a little bit, as much as he's dug in his heels to stop it from happening, because Cas is like family to the Winchesters by now and family is everything to Dean. But _in_ love with Cas? No. No. That's bad. The only thing worse than love is _in_ love, and maybe one ended up being unavoidable but he sure as hell isn't going to let the other start shoving him around too. It doesn't matter if Cas is in love with him or not. This isn't a normal situation, Cas isn't a normal guy, and even if Cas _is_ maybe a tiny bit infatuated he's getting sex and he's getting friendship and he seems pretty damn happy with it, so whatever.

Which means it doesn't even matter, right? Dean's not in love with Cas and Cas is happy the way things are. Nothing to worry about, then. Nothing at all.

… fuck.

It's bugging him so much that, detestable though the prospect is, he eventually finds himself needing to actually _talk to Sam about it._ Yeah. It's that bad. They're watching TV together (_Milk_, because it's on and Sam insists it's an important movie for everyone to watch regardless of their sexuality), which isn't unusual—but Cas isn't with them, which is. He's in the next room sleeping off the few rounds of beer the three of them just had at a local bar, because while his angelic form may be able to down the contents of an entire liquor store before feeling anything, without his grace he's kind of a lightweight.

"Maybe we should teach Cas how to drive," Sam suggests casually during one of the commercial breaks.

"What? No way. No. Not on my baby." A learner attempting to drive the Impala? He's feeling sick just thinking about it.

"Boo, you whore," says Sam.

"Did you seriously just quote _Mean Girls?_" Dean demands in disbelief.

"Did you seriously just call me out on quoting _Mean Girls?_" asks Sam.

Well played.

They fall silent again and the movie comes back on, but even if Dean hadn't been having kind of a hard time concentrating on anything lately what with agonizing over Cas 24/7 this movie is fucking impossible for him to follow. He doesn't understand any of this political stuff at all and frankly it just reminds him of watching dumb educational movies back in high school, so eventually when all the characters are sitting around talking about something apparently very important (_again_), Dean says, "Hey, you know Cas?"

"Vaguely, yes," Sam says in a distinctly sardonic tone.

"Do you really think he's…"

"What? Hopelessly in love with you? Yeah." He doesn't even look up from the screen when he says it, because he's said it over and over again and every time Dean just rolls his eyes and ignores it.

"Really?"

And now Sam does actually tear his gaze away from Sean Penn doing something important with James Franco, which even Dean will admit is kind of compelling (he's been admiring James Franco's hair with a sort of horrified fascination all movie, actually), because however Important this movie is this is the absolute first time Dean hasn't just immediately dismissed Sam's opinion on this particular matter. "Yeah, really," he says. "I mean, I could probably get you an itemized list of reasons why if you gave me a few hours, but for starters he kind of gave up Heaven for you, man. That's not really normal platonic behavior."

"But that was—"

"And while you're actually taking this seriously, can I just ask why the possibility is so terrifying?" Sam goes on. "Like, at first I thought it was because Cas was dude, but now I just have no idea. Is it really that bad to have someone care about you?"

"I—what? No, that's not—" This, Dean thinks gloomily as he struggles to come up with a semi-logical response, is not going _at all_ as planned. He wanted (well. Not wanted, no. _Needed_, really, because this is not something he would ever actually _want_) to talk about Cas, and instead Sam's gone all Dr. Phil on him. "That's not what I was asking about, and anyways it's just complicated, okay?"

"It's really not, actually. You guys are kind of perfect for each other, and I know you think you're some sort of Vulcan or something who doesn't have any emotions but that's totally bullshit. Because Spock was only half-human and look at him, and basically what I'm saying is that maybe we don't have a ton of time left so you might as well just go that one more step and enjoy what you've got while you've got it, right?"

There is a brief moment of Dean staring open-mouthed at Sam as he tries to process the fact that his brother just used a _Star Trek_ analogy as a legitimate means of convincing Dean to Live in the Moment and Follow His Heart. And it doesn't even matter, it doesn't give Dean some big epiphany, because whatever's the deal with Spock Dean's heart is too fucked up to do anything except pump blood and let him bone Cas. Which is, you know, a really great thing for a cardiac muscle to do and all, but it doesn't exactly leave a whole lot of room for Following.

"I can't," he says eventually. Sam's giving him one of his Looks, the patented _come_ on, _Dean, just grow a pair already_—except that as Sam explains to anyone unfortunate enough to use that particular expression around him vaginas are actually a lot more durable than testicles, so besides being sexist this is also inaccurate—and it is_ really_ pissing him off right now, because what the fuck does Sam know? Maybe it's black-and-white to Sam, and maybe it's basically black-and-white with some grey thrown in to Dean as well, but Sam's already proven time and time again that sometimes his black is Dean's white. And he knows losing his temper is just going to make things worse, but he still can't help snapping at his brother, "Would you just fucking _listen_ to me for once, Sam?"

"I _am_ liste—"

"No, you're fucking _not_, or we wouldn't keep having this argument over and over and over! _I can't be that with Cas._ Remember how I work, Sam? Remember how I dragged you back into this because I wanted our family back together, and then dad died and then _you_ died and I sold my goddamned soul to get you back? This whole Apocalypse thing started because I needed people to love me, to _need me_, so fucking _badly_ that I was willing to sacrifice the entire rest of the world instead of giving that up. I'm possessive and insecure and needy as fuck, and he's not exactly what you'd call well-adjusted either, and I'm sorry he's going to die before he gets to have a real relationship, really I am, but I'm giving him what I can afford to give him and giving anything more wouldn't be a relationship anyways, it would just be a fucking _time bomb._ Maybe we'd make it to the end or maybe not, I don't know, but I am _not_ going to try and find out!"

And it's true, it's all so true, and it makes him so, _so_ angry. Because he might be fundamentally unstable as a person but at least if he'd been normal, if he'd grown up with two parents and an annoying younger brother and done high school properly and played sports and had friends and gotten some stupid job, and if he'd met a guy just like Cas at a bar or something and they'd hit it off, then maybe they would have had a chance. He's not saying things would be white-picket-fence perfect, he's not saying they'd be married (hell, that's still not even legal in most states) with a small army of adopted children running around their idyllic summer cottage—for all he knows they'd be miserable or unfaithful or they'd have broken up already—but at least they'd have a fucking_ chance_ at working something out. And Sam, Sam would be with Jess, maybe they'd have kids by now, and he'd still be fighting but he'd be fighting for women's rights or against homophobia or to improve the public health education system instead of ripping monsters' heads off; and Dean used to think a normal life would be _so boring_ but right now, for the past two years probably, boring has been sounding pretty damn good to Dean.

Sam asks quietly, "Doesn't Cas get any say in this?"

"No, he doesn't," Dean says. This isn't even what he wanted to talk about, or maybe it is, he's not really sure anymore; but he definitely didn't mean to say this much and he's tired and angry and why can't Sam just _give up on him_ already? "He can feel whatever the fuck he wants but I'm not gonna do the same, because I can't love anyone anymore without hating them too for knowing they're going to leave me, and Cas is my best friend and I really _don't_ want to hate him, so _please_ can you just drop this."

"What about me?" Sam asks after a moment of him just looking at Dean and Dean just staring pointedly in the opposite direction.

Which is not what Dean's expecting to hear at all, and since it catches him off guard he ends up meeting Sam's eyes anyways. "What?"

"Do you hate me?"

Dean rubs his forehead, which is starting to pound with the beginnings of a headache—maybe from drinking, but considering the amount he drank that's pretty damn sad if it's true. He's seen fifteen-year-olds down more than he did tonight without feeling anything (okay, well, maybe he _was_ one of those fifteen-year-olds, but that just proves the point). And here's Sam asking a deep personal question after he's already gone through a bigger emotional confrontation than he's allowed himself to so much as acknowledge internally in years, and _what the hell's he supposed to say in response to that, anything he comes up with will just sound fake_, so he tells him the truth and says, "No. I can't. You're worse."

Then he has to look away again, because Sam is wearing this expression that is way too fucking heartfelt and Dean's pretty sure his brother wants to hug him—and just then someone shoots Harvey Milk, which Dean was _so fucking not expecting_ since he hasn't actually been paying attention for most of the movie, so he nearly falls backwards off the couch yelling, "Jesus fuck, _what the hell was that_?"

If they were having a moment, Dean's pretty sure he just shot it right in the foot (possibly multiple times, plus twice in the head at close range. Poor Harvey Milk). Thank God. Sam may be of the opinion that Dean talking out his feelings is the only way for him to move past his current emotionally stunted state, but as far as Dean can tell all it's done is force him to actually acknowledge a bunch of messed-up stuff that he was far happier keeping under firm denial. "I'm going to bed," he announces as the credits start to roll.

"You could sleep here," Sam suggests.

"God, Sam. I'm not gonna go put a bullet through my brain just because I've suddenly realized what a huge fuck-up I am. I made it this far, I think I can carry on with my tragic life a few more weeks, okay? I don't need you to take care of me."

"Maybe _I_ want you to sleep here, though," says Sam. Which totally throws Dean, because somehow he's been so busy worrying about himself and Cas and everything that all he's been registering of Sam lately is how much better he's handling this than the rest of them and how he's still crazy enough to bother eating healthy when the world's about to burn. And that's as may be, but however well Sam may seem to be handling this whole thing he's dealing with basically the same stuff Dean's got on his plate, minus the angel sex, so he's got to be just as scared and exhausted and guilty and depressed as his older brother. Who hasn't been much good at taking care of him lately.

"Yeah, okay," Dean agrees gruffly after a moment. Cas will probably wake up freaking out that Dean's not around and what if they've left without him—that is if he's not too busy feeling like shit from his pussy excuse-for-a-hangover (or balls-y or whatever the anatomically correct term is, thank you very much, Sam)—but if Sam is asking for one night from him he can sure as hell give Sam that one night. Anyways, they'll be right next door when Cas wakes up, because whatever else Dean may be doing to Cas neither he nor Sam would ever just up and _leave_. They've both been on the receiving end of that already, thanks to John. They both know how shitty it is.

So he ends up climbing into Sam's extra bed, where he finds a pair of pink Hello Kitty panties shoved way down at the bottom. "What the hell, dude?"

"Oh. Um, yeah. So, that happened," says Sam, scratching his head with a vague air of awkwardness.

"How old was she, twelve?"

"_No_, she was… um, on her way back from a con."

"A con? Like a convention?" Sam nods reluctantly. "Like a business convention, right?"

"Not… not exactly, no…"

"So basically what you're telling me is that you hooked up with Hello Kitty." Dean's not sure exactly how they got from having a deep, soul-wrenching confessional to talking about fucking blobby Japanese cartoon characters but hey, that's life as a Winchester. And, sadly, this is a conversation he's a lot more comfortable with than the first.

"Princess Leia, okay? She was Princess Leia."

Something here isn't fitting into his brain properly, and he's pretty sure it's the fact that his brother apparently slept with a girl dressed as Princess Leia wearing Hello Kitty underwear. He can literally not imagine anything more disgustingly geeky, except maybe if they start quoting lines from _Lord of the Rings_ while they were—okay, okay, _enough._ Augh. What the hell did he ever do to deserve this? "Sam, I'm disowning you. Goodnight."

"She was really nice—"

"_Goodnight_, you freak."

So that's how they end their evening of emotional connection, or what passes for emotional connection in their family, anyways. Dean doesn't fall asleep tearing himself up over Cas, or indeed hating himself any more than usual, but instead wondering when Sam even had the _time_ to pick this comic-girl up and also, though he's trying not to think about this too much, whether he and Cas were possibly fucking while Sam was doing the exact same thing next door. Because that would just be awkward.


	15. Chapter 15

Dean is not in a very good mood with Cas at the moment.

Well, actually he's not in a very good mood in general. It's just one of those days. But Cas is really pushing his buttons and it kind of seems like he's doing it on purpose, so most of his bitterness is directed towards his roommate. Which, of course, is doing tons to help the situation.

They're somewhere in Washington, and it's raining. Not that they're planning a picnic or something outdoors-y like that, and Dean's certainly not worried about ruining his hair or whatever, but it's been pissing rain all day and everything is soggy and humid and miserable. So that didn't exactly start the day off right for Dean, nor has its refusal to lessen done anything for his spirits; on top of which Dean is not a particularly patient guy, and Cas has been impossibly slow about absolutely _everything_ today. He had to be dragged out of bed, he took so long getting ready Dean was forced to watch _nearly a whole episode_ of _Pokemon_ while waiting (it was morning and that was the only thing on, okay?), he sat in morose silence through every single one of the interviews they went through today—not that interviews go any better when he participates, exactly the opposite in fact, but he just sat there the whole time exuding self-pity and it was _annoying_—and now _this._ Sitting in this grungy (even by their standards) diner, picking half-heartedly at his meal.

"Are you almost _done?_" Dean snaps finally, sick and tired of sitting around waiting. He finished his own dinner ages ago and there are about a million things he'd rather be doing than being here watching Cas progress through the plate of food in front of him with such painful lethargy.

Cas gives him an offended stare and doesn't deign to respond. He prods the bun of his burger with one long finger, looking almost like he's about to pick it up and take another goddamned bite but then losing interest again.

"What the hell's your problem, man? We've got a frigging shifter _brigade_ to hunt. Hurry up and finish." He drums his fingers on the table in an irritating rhythm that has Sam, who has long since given up on the conversation and resorted to staring disinterestedly out the window at the rain-soaked parking lot, turning to glare at them. You can really just feel the love emanating round this table right now. God.

Eventually Cas pushes his plate away from him and announces, "I'm not hungry," and looking back, this should have been a sign as big as those gigantic Hollywood letters that SOMETHING IS REALLY WRONG HERE. Cas not hungry? Okay, fine. It happens. Whatever. Cas not hungry for burgers, even burgers as shitty as these? Zachariah ought to turn up any second to bodily _cram_ Michael's essence into Dean, because this is the biggest fucking clue the world's ending that Dean's ever seen. Though of course, Dean being Dean, it completely goes over his head at the time.

Dean rolls his eyes—couldn't he have mentioned that _sooner?_ Like maybe, _fifteen minutes ago?_ And yeah, maybe they're not super likely to go out looking for shifters this late in the day or in this downpour, but he's pissed off and when he's pissed off his arguments make even less sense than usual. "Great, well, can we go now?"

"There is a pain in my abdomen," Cas says, eyeing Dean resentfully. Clearly he's not impressed with the fact that it's taken everyone so long to notice, though how either of them was supposed to be able to tell Cas was on his fucking period or whatever Dean has no idea.

"What, like you feel sick?" asks Sam.

_Nonononono_. Cas _can't_ be sick. Dean will literally gouge his own eyes out with a plastic spoon rather than have to deal with _that_ again. Fuck. If Cas has the flu or something, he is _so_ fucking moving in with Sam.

"No, it just hurts."

"It might be a bug. I don't know. Maybe something you ate." And now Sam and Dean are exchanging uneasy glances, since aside from Sam's vegetable obsession they've pretty much all been eating the same food lately. Even if it is a bug it's probably nothing serious but still, being sick sucks, especially when everyone you know is sick too so there's really no one to baby you. "We can pick up some Pepto-Bismol on the way home, I saw a drugstore… somewhere…"

Oh, so they're just going to drive around the city until they find a pharmacy, by which time it will be even darker than it is already what with all the rain clouds and they'll probably be lost—all with a potentially-going-to-puke-at-some-point Cas as a passenger? Not fucking likely. "Whoa, whoa," Dean cuts in hurriedly. "I don't want him in_ my _car if he's going to hurl. No way."

Sam makes the mistake of saying, "For God's sake, Dean, it's just a car," which leads to several minutes of pointless bickering (pointless because Dean knows Sam will just never _understand_ the special relationship he has with his car no matter how many clever laptop/salad/bad country music analogies Dean uses) while Cas mopes in the background with his arms crossed over his stomach like he thinks the discomfort is an indication that his intestines are about to fall out. And then, just to improve his already fantastic mood, Dean somehow finds himself saddled with the task of walking Cas back to the motel while Sam goes off in the Impala to find a bottle of nasty pink medicine that probably won't even help anyways.

They're both soaked within a minute of leaving the diner, water squelching unpleasantly in Dean's boots as he trudges down the sidewalk. Beside him Cas is still clutching his stomach and with the rain flattening down his hair and dripping off the tip of his nose he looks even more pathetic than he did inside. If he were a proper boyfriend, or even just a proper friend, he would probably wrap an arm around Cas's shoulder and say something comfortingly sympathetic; but since he's an asshole who won't even let his sick best friend ride in his car it just irritates him even further and he says, "What, so now you're pregnant or something?"

"That is an anatomical impossibility, Dean," Cas points out peevishly.

"Your mom is an anatomical impossibility."

"You are being both illogical and rude."

Dean makes a face at him, though thankfully it's too dark for Cas to catch it. He'd hate to lose the reputation for maturity he's spent so many years cultivating.

Sam's already back by the time they return, which is so fucking frustrating because it means they definitely could have skipped getting drenched without having to worry about Cas ruining his baby's upholstery. Dean snatches the bottle his brother hands him wordlessly, ignoring the goddamned _superior_ expression on Sam's face as he pointedly wipes the water Dean's managed to drip on him off on his (dry) jacket. Then Dean drags Cas into their room, chucks him a towel, and forcibly administers the medicine—Cas is honestly just like a child when it comes to being sick, and Dean should know because he was the one in charge of looking after most of Sam's various ailments when they were kids. Luckily there are a few tricks he's discovered recently, ones that he couldn't exactly have used on Sam all those years ago, and so a disgruntled Cas finds himself confronted with several mouthfuls of the disgusting syrup mid hand-job.

Since he's not a total bastard Dean always carries through, of course, because while using sex to get Cas to take his medicine may be playing unfair leaving a guy hanging like that is downright cruel; but this time it's Cas who's pushing him away with an air of great betrayal (you'd think he'd have learned after the first _five_ times, but _nooo_) and also great crankiness. "I just want to _sleep_," he complains.

"Fine by me," Dean snaps (even though it's not, because his dick was just getting interested and now he's going to have to take care of it himself). He's pretty sure Cas doesn't even hear him, considering the remarkable speed with which he manages to yank the covers over his head. He's kind of tempted to turn on porn on the motel's shitty TV set and crank the volume just to get back at Cas for being annoying today; but that's mean, and Cas is sick, and he knows he's not exactly being the most understanding friend in the first place. He contemplates going to bug Sam for a while, then decides his bad mood really doesn't need to be inflicted on anyone else. Better just to write off the rest of the evening and try again tomorrow. It's just been one of those days that are far better forgotten than drawn out.

So relative silence descends on their room, aside from the murmur of the TV (_not_ playing porn, as it happens) and presumably Dean's heartbeat and breathing and stuff that Cas with his whole super-human perception thingy might be able to pick up on if he weren't asleep, until around 11:30 when Dean finds himself dozing off halfway through an episode of _Bones_ (yeah, yeah, procedural cop show, but he's too busy fantasizing about a three-way with the forensic lady and the FBI guy to care much about the plot).

He gets into bed without realizing his hair is somehow still wet, and as a result spends several horrified minutes wondering what the fuck happened to his pillow—the perfect end to a perfect day, right? And then he has this weird dream where the forensic lady from that show is licking his ear, which might be sexy except when he turns around she's transformed into Zachariah, and he's back in that office where he was Dean Wesson with those stupid suspenders and he's running down halls that are for some reason lined with watercolour portraits of Paris Hilton, looking for a shovel because Sam and Cas are getting married and he really needs to give Sam the shovel before they say their vows—

—and then, thank god, he wakes up.

For a moment he simply lies there, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the _fuck _his brain thought it was doing. Like, actually. In what _possible_ way does any of that make even the _slightest_—

Then it occurs to him that something actually woke him up, so he rolls over onto his side, from which position he can see two things. One, the clock on the table between his and Cas's beds is flashing 1:03 a.m. (that is, until about thirty seconds later when a sudden ominous buzz and the disappearance of the numbers altogether indicates the storm still raging outside has knocked the power out). Two, Cas is crouched on the floor where he seems to have fallen out of bed, hunched over in pain and saying in this weird whisper-y shout thing, "Dean Dean Dean Dean wake up Dean please wake up it hurts it hurts _it_ _hurts_—"

Maybe Dean's still half asleep, but even he can tell something is actually, legitimately, this-can't-be-cured-by-Pepto-Bismol wrong. He's out of bed in a matter of seconds, kneeling beside Cas to ask urgently, "What is it, what's wrong?" Which is kind of a dumb question because it doesn't take a genius to figure out _what's wrong_, what he really wants to know is _why_ it's wrong and _how_ to fix but obviously Cas can't tell him that or they wouldn't be having this problem at all.

"Do something do something make it stop—"

"Okay, okay, I'll just—I'll get Sam, okay?" He tries to stand up, only to find Cas's fingers dug uncomfortably into his shoulder in a death grip that prevents him from leaving. As gently as he can, which is not particularly gentle considering he's kind of freaking out right now, he pries himself free, giving Cas's hand what's supposed to be a comforting squeeze as he lets him sink back to floor. "Just—don't die for, like, two minutes. I'll be right back. Just hang on."

Sam answers the insistent pounding at his door in his underwear, scowling sleepily at his brother (who, by the way, is not only also in his underwear but is now soaking wet again from running across the parking lot as well, so clearly this night is just turning out generally awesome).

"Hey," says Dean, giving him a strained smile. "So, you know how we haven't been to the hospital in a while?"

Sam's second opinion is basically the same as Dean's vague yet inauspicious first opinion and therefore not of particular help, but it takes a joint effort to get the doubled-over Cas out of the room and into the back seat of the Impala, with the added bonus that the power-outage makes navigating their way out of the darkened room a super-fun obstacle course. Fifteen even more super-fun minutes of trying to find the nearest hospital in a strange town at night in the pouring rain with half the traffic lights blown out later and the Winchesters are hauling Cas into the ER, ignoring the receptionist's disapproving stares at the puddles of water forming around them as they attempt to explain what's wrong. And then, of course, since someone's always dying _somewhere_ and Cas isn't gushing blood or holding any severed limbs in place and therefore has been designated one of the "not-as-emergency emergency patients", they get to go drip on the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting room while they wait for a doctor. Cas has his head buried in Dean's shoulder, Dean's got his arm around Cas because it just has to be done, and Sam's got this weird expression that's a cross between being worried about Cas and squealing in excitement over how Dean's kind of cuddling Cas right now, so apparently despite Dean's big heart-to-heart with his brother the other night Sam is still holding out for a wedding before the end of the world.

Eventually a nurse comes to take Cas away, and although his friend shoots him a pleading look as he leaves all Dean can say is, "Sorry, Cas, we can't come with. We'll come see you as soon as the doctor lets us, I promise."

"You'll be fine," Sam adds. Cas does not look reassured.

Then they wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Sam goes to get them coffee. They drink it, then wait some more.

Dean suggests they play I Spy to pass the time. Sam says, "Okay, I spy a really stupid idea."

Dean sulks.

Sam tries not to stare at the guy with fork stuck in his hand sitting across from them.

More waiting.

Dean's eyelids are beginning to itch with tiredness despite the coffee when another nurse comes over to talk to them. "Are you the ones who came in with Castiel Novak?" he asks.

Right, that's the other problem. Dean just said the first thing that popped into his head when the receptionist asked for a name, which for some reason happened to be Novak rather than Winchester even though Winchester would have been a lot easier to deal with. Though afterwards Sam pointed out it was actually okay, because if the hospital staff took Cas as Dean and Sam's brother they might have started asking about the family's medical history, and while they're generally fine with making backstories up off the top of their heads this seems like a case where that might not be such a great idea since they still don't know what's wrong with Cas. Whatever Sam says it still seems fucking stupid to Dean, and even though he knows it was probably just from being too tired and too stressed and doesn't actually mean anything he feels like an asshole for not automatically sharing his name with Cas who may or may not be seriously ill and/or dying.

Anyways, they nod and then the nurse asks, "Which one of you is Dean?"

"Me," says Dean.

"And you're his…?"

Oh yeah, the whole visitation rights thing. They're supposed to be immediate family. Why didn't he say Winchester, _why,_ they could have been brothers instead of—

Dean glances at Sam, who stares inscrutably back. "Hus…band?" Dean suggests uncertainly.

He can practically sense how hard it is for Sam to resist the urge to start jumping up and down in delight. Fucking fantastic—he's _never_ going to live this down.

The nurse raises his eyebrows, which is kind of unsurprising since that was basically the sketchiest answer Dean's ever given to anything and he's suddenly very aware of something that isn't normally an issue, namely the lack of a wedding ring on his left hand. But it's late (or actually just early by now, and sadly not even that early) and other than the Winchesters it's pretty clear that Cas is on his own, and if Dean knows Cas—and he thinks he kind of does, by now—Cas probably hasn't shut up asking to see Dean and Sam, so the guy just shrugs and says, "Okay, well, follow me."

"What about… can my brother…"

"For now, sure. If anyone else shows up, siblings or parents or whatever, he'll have to leave."

"Oh, they won't," says Dean. And then, for no particular reason other than he's clearly out to make as big a fool of himself as possible tonight, he adds, "They're all still in Russia."

He's about ninety-nine percent sure Jimmy Novak isn't Russian. At all. Cas _definitely_ isn't, unless Heaven is secretly in Russia, in which case God has some serious explaining to do.

The nurse doesn't seem to care too much about this, though, except for the fact that Dean and Sam are the only people going to be with Cas tonight, so they go down a bunch of too-clean hallways wearing dumb stickers on their shirts that say CDU 3 and cleaning their hands self-consciously every time the nurse does until Dean's pretty sure he reeks of Purell. Then they're squeezing through a room crowded with curtained beds with vague instructions about where they're supposed to find Dean's supposed husband, and Dean's not sure about Sam but he's already starting to get that claustrophobic helpless hospital feeling that's had him and his brother stitching up their own wounds for years. It's like out there they can save people, they can kill monsters and stop imminent death, but there's no way to stop sickness or a fatal injury except sometimes medicine, which Dean isn't a whole lot of good with because he never went to school and too often it doesn't seem to do anything anyhow.

He sees a big number 3 on the sign above one of the curtained beds and tugs it open, but he fails to notice that it isn't CDU 3 it's something-else-3 and so ends up staring at an emaciated sleeping old man for a second before tugging the curtain hurriedly closed. It's just a second, it's an honest mistake, the man isn't even awake to see it; Dean still kind of cringes, though, feeling like he's just horribly invaded someone's privacy, and drops back to lurk behind Sam until his brother finds the right place.

And then finally there's Cas, propped up in bed somehow succeeding in looking both woozy and anxious, and his face clears as soon as he sees the Winchesters. It seems like a bit of an overreaction to Dean until he realizes how rarely Cas has actually been away from them, and how much he still doesn't know about how to pass as a human very well or do human things like deal with health insurance. There's a doctor with him, a dark middle-aged woman checking things off on a clipboard who reminds Dean unnervingly of the terrifying principal of the school he went to for a couple months when he was nine.

"How you feeling, Cas?" Dean asks, sidling up to his bed as casually as he can without looking like he's trying to keep his distance from the doctor (this is so stupid, he's fought demons and spirits and horrible monsters since forever and this is just a _woman_, a frigging _doctor_, and besides it's not even the same person, she can't put you in detention, _you're a fucking adult, Dean_).

Cas gives him a Look. It's a crazy mash-up of pain and fear and frustration and annoyance at being asked such a stupid question and relief that at least Dean's here being stupid again, and Dean's not exactly sure whether Cas wants him to do something cute and couple-y or just piss off; but Cas's hand slips out from under the sheet to grab Dean's own, hanging below the bed where neither the doctor nor Sam can see from the other side, which he figures is a pretty clear message. It ought to be romantic, like maybe now that Cas is in the hospital freaking out they'll both be hit by a sudden realization of how much they are actually madly in love and can't live without each other and want to spend every second of the rest of their (probably very short) lives kissing on the beach at sunset etc. etc., but mostly it just seems like someone who's fucking terrified trying to hold on to basically the only thing that's familiar to him right now. Which is a lot starker and a lot more desperate and also somehow a lot more complicated than just plain old falling in love.

Meanwhile Sam is shaking hands with the woman in the white jacket, who introduces herself in a no-nonsense voice (she even sounds like Dean's old principal, _shit_) as, "Dr. Nguyen, Castiel's doctor, and you are…?"

"Sam Winchester," says Sam, shaking her hand. "Uh. Cas is married to my brother." He seems to be trying with questionable success to stop himself from grinning like an idiot as he says it, with the result that his mouth does a weird spasm-type thing that he has to turn away from Dr. Nguyen to hide. Dean makes an effort not to roll his eyes.

"Right." She turns to stare down Dean, and Dean's stomach lurches sickeningly as if he's back in Mrs. Wickham's office waiting to be told she's going to call his dad, which isn't so bad, and to be given one of his principal's infamous lectures, which is. "Well, as I was telling your husband"—it shouldn't be strange to hear someone say that, not after he's introduced them as a couple himself, but it is, it fucking _is_—"while he's stable at the moment, he's going to need surgery as soon as can be managed."

"I… what? Why?" Dean blurts out.

She fixes him with a stare that says _I wasn't finished_, for which he immediately regrets interrupting. "He needs a fairly urgent appendectomy. We should be able to perform it in a few hours."

This time Dean stays silent, partly scared she's still not finished and partly fighting off the feeling he needs to raise his hand if he wants to say something and partly in a state of mild shock, and Cas is too busy looking terrified and crushing the bones in Dean's hand to say anything, and so it's Sam who manages to keep himself together enough to ask dubiously, "Is that, um, you know, safe? I mean he hasn't really had a lot of medical work done before and…"

"I've already examined him, and aside from his appendix Castiel seems perfectly healthy. There is of course some level of risk in any surgical procedure, but compared to the risk of not having the surgery there's really very little to worry about."

Okay. Okay. So, in not very long someone is going to come put Cas under and remove his appendix.

Okay.

Basically, they're willingly letting Cas be knocked out. And then willingly letting someone rip out one of his internal organs.

Except no, it's not like that at all. That sounds like a case, like the immortal doctor who kept stealing bits of people to keep himself alive back before Dean went to Hell. This is not a case. This is so far from being a case it's practically an… an _anti-case._ Because if there is one definite truth in becoming a hunter it's that you can kiss your boring, normal life goodbye, because nothing is ever going to be normal again; and yet here they are, after fighting vamps and spirits and gods and demons and all that fun stuff. In the hospital, a normal couple with one normal brother here in the middle of the night because Cas's stomach was hurting, waiting for Dean's "husband" to get a pretty damn normal surgery as surgeries go. Back in the waiting room Dean and Sam were exchanging theories, considering spells and cursed objects and supernatural infections (neither voiced the thought that it might be some sort of new strain of the Croatoan virus, but the possibility weighed heavily on both), and now this doctor is saying that it's just the human body being a human body. When was the last time that happened? When was the last time they had to worry about taxes, mortgages, leaking roofs, travel insurance, exasperating ancient relatives, flu shots, _appendicitis_?

Never, that's when. Not since Dean was four, anyways, and then his parents worried about all of that stuff for him. And maybe for a few hours, a few days, when that djinn took Dean down or when both he and Sam were plunged into that artificial office world. But basically never. So this, as strange as it may seem, is actually something of a vacation for them. A luxury. For once all they have to worry about is Cas getting some surgery that will probably leave him one-hundred-percent okay at the end. No million-to-one chances of survival, no fate-of-the-world hinging on this.

"You can stay with him for the time being," says Dr. Nguyen, who is already checking her clipboard for her next patient. "One of the nurses will come fetch him when it's time. Any questions?"

"No, I think we're—"

"Will it hurt?" Cas asks quietly.

And even though he's got stubble and a deep voice and he's fucked Dean so hard Dean almost blacked out and he's burned demons right out of their human shells with barely a second glance, right now—in bed wearing a hospital gown, clutching Dean's hand and asking that question in a tone that says he's really worried about the answer but pretending it's not a big deal—Cas looks like a child. Like a second little brother, like Dean really is nine years old again and Cas just scraped his knee up pretty bad so now Dean has to put antiseptic on, and he's trying to convince Cas it's not going to hurt at all even though that shit stings like hell-fire, easily twice as bad as whatever the initial injury was.

Dr. Nguyen's face softens slightly in a smile, until she looks more like someone's mother than Dean's old hard-ass principal. "You'll be asleep the whole time," she promises. "You'll have an excellent anesthesiologist who'll make sure you don't feel a thing until the surgeon's finished. There will probably be some pain afterwards, but we'll give you some painkillers and with enough rest you'll be good as new in no time."

Cas nods. And then it's just the three of them. Well, just the three of them along with all the other patients and their visitors currently occupying the ward. Hospitals would probably not make the top ten on Dean's list of good places to go to have a private conversation.

"I don't want to," says Cas.

"I know, buddy." Dean realizes he's been rubbing his thumb absently in circles over the back of Cas's hand and he should stop, he really should, but even though Sam's been saying as much for ages it's just starting to click now that maybe it's not all about him. "But trust me, you've seen way worse running with me and Sam."

Cas nods again, though he doesn't seem particularly comforted. And it just gets worse over the next hour, right up to the same nurse from before arriving with another assistant to take Cas up to the operating room, at which point Sam proves himself once again to be a fucking asshole about his ability to understand Dean and Cas better than they understand themselves and says, "Dean'll be here when you wake up, Cas. You'll be fine."

"You know," Sam says once they're back in the waiting room and Dean is once again sulking, this time because Sam made him look romantic and stupid with someone who isn't even his husband, "You and Cas…"

"Oh my God, Sam, if you don't shut up about me and Cas I am literally going to throw myself out this window."

Sam glances at the nearby window. "That's okay, we're only on the main floor. Go for it."

"Fuck you," says Dean, which is just about as witty as his comebacks get after sleeping only one hour out of the previous twenty-four.

"Look, I'm not trying to trivialize anything you said before, and I totally get how you could never, ever have a normal relationship with anyone and probably I couldn't either, anymore, because either they wise up and get out while they still can or they don't and they die and either way you end up on your own again. But for the longest time I've kind of felt like you and Cas have had this weird sort of long-distance dating thing going, pretty much ever since you met actually, and it's definitely not normal and neither of you are at all normal, I mean you guys don't even like ice cream sandwiches or _Lost_ or anything not to mention being mixed up in all this Apocalypse stuff, but maybe that's why this could actually work. What I got from what you told me is that you don't want to feel too much for him, not that you _don't_ feel too much for him. Kind of the opposite, really. And Cas isn't going anywhere anytime soon, at least not any sooner than the rest of us."

Dean spends a few confusing moments trying to figure out when eating ice cream sandwiches and watching _Lost_ became the standards for "normal" human behaviour, finally throwing in the metaphorical towel in face of the mystery that is Sam's mind and saying flatly, "So, what, you want me to go buy an engagement ring while we're waiting, or something?"

"No, that's stupid."

"I know."

"None of the stores would be open yet."

"Exac—wait, no, that's not—"

"I'm just saying," Sam says, plowing onward with determination. "I'm just saying, it's all good, you know? Like, you don't have to go out on dates or hold hands all the time or run off to New York to get married or anything. You don't have to "make it official". But you don't have to _not_ do that stuff either, just because someone might take it the wrong way or the right way or whatever and then you'd get all insecure. It's not about putting a label on, right? Maybe it would be harder if you had a normal job and neighbours and friends and all that stuff, but for what we've got going it works as well as anything else."

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it again because he has no fucking clue what to say in response to that. So after a while of Sam looking at him expectantly and him looking blankly back, he finally settles for, "Huh."


	16. Chapter 16

The world is still ending.

The world is ending in a mess of hurricanes and plagues and monsters and demons, running itself deeper and deeper into the ground, and trying to stop it is like someone shouting at the TV for the characters to _just fucking kiss already, goddamnit_, when it's a re-run and you know the ending can't change (which Dean totally hasn't done, ever, because he totally doesn't think Kirk and Spock are hot for each other. At all). Or something. Impossible, anyways, and also insane.

The world is ending, and it seems kind of pointless to get an appendectomy just to live a little while longer. It would make more sense for the doctors to just anesthetize the entire population right fucking now and let them sleep peacefully through the End of Days without suffering any.

But Cas is waking up anyways, with a neat new scar tucked away somewhere beneath his hospital gown, so Dean's going to be there.

"Hello," Cas says groggily.

"Hi," says Dean.

Silence.

"How're you feeling?"

"Okay," says Cas, which Dean takes to mean fuck-all horrible.

More silence. Dean wonders if he should just leave Cas to rest. They've got some time. Not a lot, but some. Enough.

"Dean…"

"Yeah?"

"I hope this does not make you uncomfortable, but I would like you to know that I feel you greatly improve my quality of life."

Dean smiles, though the action seems to take his sleep-deprived muscles a lot more effort than it should. "Thanks, Cas. Same here."

Cas frowns and points out uncertainly, "That seems rather self-explanatory and also slightly narcissistic…"

"_No_, dumbass, I meant the same thing you said but… like… backwards. Or whatever."

"Oh. Thank you. I'm glad it's mutual."

"Yeah, well… yeah." Dean shifts his position for want of anything better to do as a distraction from the terrifying possibility that he might actually be nearing something vaguely resembling an emotional conversation with Cas, and notices the dog-eared book left beside Cas's bed by Sam when he was in here earlier, waiting with Dean for Cas to regain consciousness. "Hey, you want me to read this to you? I guess I could read this to you, maybe…"

"Really?"

"Fuck no. Harry Potter can go screw himself," says Dean, who is extremely sick of magic and the Power of Love and idiots flying around on broomsticks.

"I don't criticize your interests, Dean," Cas says resentfully.

"Sorry. But I can't read it to you because, uh, because… I'm illiterate."

Cas is wrinkling his nose in confusion and wait for it, wait for it, here it comes… and yes, there's the head-tilt. "No, you're not. You read menus all the time."

"Yeah, um, sudden onset."

"You are being extremely idiotic right now."

"Yep," Dean agrees. "I could suck you off to make up for it, if you like."

"As much as I appreciate the offer I feel that immediately following abdominal surgery is not the ideal time for sexual activities of any kind."

"Okay. Maybe later." Dean gives the woman in the bed across from Cas, who appears to have been listening in on their conversation if her affronted expression is anything to go by, a friendly smile. He thinks about what Sam said earlier, even though he doesn't want to, and even though he _really_ doesn't want to he can't help admitting to himself that even without the sex he's going to kind of miss having Cas in bed with him while Cas recovers here. He keeps thinking about what Sam said earlier and realizes it's a lot easier, now, to just say stuff and do stuff because he wants to, without worrying about how it looks to Sam or to anyone else. And on that note he wonders what the normal couple thing to do here would be, but since he can't figure it out within the first five seconds of consideration he gives up and just ends up staring around the room for a moment before saying, "D'you want to play I Spy instead, then?"

The world is ending, and playing a stupid game in a stupid hospital room with his best frie… boyfr…_Cas_ seems kind of, well, kind of stupid. Kind of bad timing. This is the time for last-ditch saving-the-world-attempts, or desperate passionate I-can't-live-without-you sex, or valiant last stands, not for trying to guess in a clinically bland hospital what Cas might possibly see that is "white".

Then again.

Then again, the world is ending, so when else is Dean going to get to sit here with Cas guessing _walls _and _floor_ and _bed-sheets_ and _come on, are you sure it's not the bed-sheets?_ Because it's not just playing I Spy, it's playing I Spy with Cas; it's getting annoyed with an angel who doesn't know the rules, it's making dumb jokes, it's sneaking a kiss before Sam drags Dean away so that all three of them can get some sleep. It's enough.

More than enough, really.

And if Sam sings along to _one more fucking Taylor Swift song_ while he's driving, Dean is literally going to beat him to death with that weird-looking dildo neither he nor Cas has dared to touch. _Goddamnit. _


End file.
